Page 23 of Marble Hall Murders

‘I am still leading this investigation,’ Voltaire said. He spoke without turning round. ‘And you will share with me any information that you receive.’

‘We are here to assist you, Monsieur Voltaire,’ Pünd assured him. ‘Not to get in your way.’

Pünd and Fraser stepped onto the driveway and waited for the French detective to join them. Whatever had happened to him, presumably a war injury, it had affected his whole body, making it difficult for him to manoeuvre himself out of the car. It was obvious that he was in constant pain. Finally, the three of them stood in the sunshine, looking up at the handsome façade of the house and the three white marble steps leading up to the front door. A gendarme had been positioned outside and saluted Voltaire as he approached.

They walked through a vestibule with an elaborate tiled floor and into thegrand salon. In the far distance, a plump, red-faced man was sitting with his legs splayed out, gazing around him impatiently. There was a second, fair-haired man with him, his hands on his knees, wearing a lilac jacket and white trousers. They were side by side on a gildedchaise longue with another gendarme watching over them. Voltaire provided their names: ‘Jeffrey Chalfont and Harry Lyttleton.’

Jeffrey Chalfont looked at his watch, clearly agitated. ‘We’ve been here for the best part of an hour, Mr Voltaire,’ he grunted. ‘Is this really necessary?’

‘You do not think your mother’s death is worth an hour of your time, Monsieur Chalfont?’

‘It’s Lord Chalfont, if you don’t mind, but right now I suppose that’s beside the point. There are a lot of things I must do following my mother’s death. I may have to go back to Norfolk – assuming I’m allowed to leave this wretched country.’

‘That will not be possible until my investigation is complete,’ Voltaire said.

‘Why? It seems to me there’s no chance that she was murdered and so this extensive police presence is both boring and unnecessary.’ Jeffrey Chalfont had done his best to make himself look more presentable. He had shaved and smoothed down his red hair and he was wearing a jacket and tie. But there was still something apish about his appearance. He didn’t want to be here and he didn’t care if Voltaire knew it. So far, he had shown no interest in Pünd at all.

‘Can you describe what happened in the garden?’ Pünd asked.

‘This is Herr Pünd,’ Voltaire explained, still using the German form of address. ‘He is a well-known detective who met Lady Chalfont in London when she was last there. She asked him to come to France.’

‘Herr Pünd? You’re a Jerry?’

‘My family emigrated from Greece,’ Pünd told him, ignoring the insult.

‘Well, my mother never mentioned you to me,’ Jeffrey Chalfont remarked gruffly.

‘Nor me,’ Harry Lyttleton added.

‘And yet your wife was present when we met,’ Pünd said. ‘She did not say anything to you?’

‘You mean – Judith? No. Not a word.’

James Fraser had taken out his notebook and had written down everything that had been said so far. He put a question mark beside this last statement – but only because he had noticed that Pünd seemed surprised.

‘Your mother also wrote to Herr Pünd,’ Voltaire explained. ‘I have seen the letter and although she does not say as much directly, it could be implied that she was in fear of her life.’

‘She was ill!’ Jeffrey said. He made it sound completely obvious. ‘She knew she was going to die.’

‘But not from poisoning.’

‘There’s still no proof of that,’ Harry Lyttleton cut in. ‘She died immediately after drinking tea and Jeffrey agreed we should call the police. Wouldn’t you have done the same? It was his mother, after all.’

‘You told the police that she complained of a burning sensation in her throat,’ Pünd said.

‘That was true.’ Harry reached forward and opened a silver and ivory box on the table in front of him. He took out a Gitanes cigarette and lit it, coughing as the smoke hit his lungs. ‘She did say that.’

‘A burning throat is not usually a symptom of a heart attack, Mr Lyttleton.’

‘She could have just scalded herself. I mean, isn’t that a possibility? The tea was rather hot.’

‘How far is the gazebo from the house?’

‘Oh … it’s miles away,’ Harry answered and scowled. In the space of five seconds he had managed to contradict himself.

‘And so the tea could not have been of a scalding temperature by the time it reached you.’ Pünd made the obvious conclusion.

Jeffrey Chalfont managed a thin, humourless smile. ‘But who would want to kill a woman who had only months to live? Why risk hanging when the end was so near anyway?’