Page 31 of Marble Hall Murders

‘The police are going to want to talk to you,’ Robert said. ‘This man – Voltaire.’

‘I have nothing to hide from him.’

‘What about Herr Werner?’

Elmer looked up as if he had just been stung. ‘Erich Werner?’

‘You know what I’m talking about, Pa.’

‘We’ve already been into this. Erich Werner is seventy-three years old and retired. For thirty years, he was a respected art dealer in Zurich and he has got absolutely nothing to do with what has happened here.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘How stupid can you be, Robert? This misunderstanding with Erich is completely irrelevant, and if you have any sense at all, you won’t mention any of it to Voltaire – or to anyone else who comes here asking questions.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’ Robert felt bruised. ‘Why do you treat me this way, Pa? It’s always the same. Why do you have to be so hard?’

‘Hard?’ Elmer sounded genuinely surprised. ‘The trouble with you, Robert, is that you’re much more like me than you think. You just haven’t woken up to it yet. Things are going to change now that Margaret has gone and the next few days are going to be difficult. But we have each other. If we stick together, we’ll come through this all right and maybe – who knows? – what has happened will bring us closer. It’s up to you.’

He was going to say more, but just then there was a knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ Elmer called.

The door opened and Voltaire entered, followed by two strangers. The first was a man in his mid-sixties, elegantlydressed in a light summer suit, his hand resting on a rosewood walking stick with a bronze handle. He wore thinly framed glasses and his eyes, behind the circular discs, managed to be kind and dangerous at the same time. He was accompanied by a younger man, perhaps thirty years old, fair-haired with a boyish face and the first dusting of a suntan.

Voltaire introduced them as briefly as he could. ‘This is Atticus Pünd. He’s come from England to help me with my inquiries. And this is his assistant, James Fraser.’

Elmer Waysmith had already met Voltaire earlier that morning, but he was clearly perplexed by the arrival of a second detective. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he demanded. ‘My wife dies of a heart attack and the Sûreté sends a man down from Paris. And if that isn’t enough, now we have Scotland Yard. Who’s going to arrive next? Interpol?’

‘I am not with the police. I am a private detective.’ Pünd took a chair opposite Elmer Waysmith. Voltaire sat at the end of the divan. Fraser remained by the door with his pen and notepad poised. ‘I knew Lady Chalfont,’ Pünd continued. ‘You could say we were friends.’

‘She never mentioned you.’

‘We met most recently in London just a few days ago. She invited me to come to the South of France and that is why I am here.’

‘Looks like you arrived too late, Mr Pünd.’

Fraser looked shocked. Pünd could only nod in agreement.

‘This must be uniquely painful for you, Monsieur Waysmith,’ Voltaire remarked. Despite his words, there was no sympathy in his voice. ‘To lose not one but two wives in suspicious circumstances.’

‘I see you’ve done your homework, Mr Voltaire,’ Elmer said. ‘And, yes, it is very painful. But I can assure you, there is no connection between the two deaths.’

‘On the contrary, monsieur. You are the connection.’

‘Perhaps it might help to tell us a little about your first marriage and the loss of your first wife,’ Pünd said. He was trying to sound accommodating, as if to suggest that although he did not approve of Voltaire’s directness, it would be impossible to ignore what had happened in the past.

‘I think we should leave Marion out of this,’ Elmer insisted.

Voltaire said nothing. Robert looked from his father to the French police officer and then back again.

‘It’s extremely painful for me to dig up the past,’ Elmer continued. ‘But I’ll tell you what you want to know. Marion had a long history of mental illness. She suffered from what the doctors called “housewife syndrome”, although God knows, she never had to cook a meal or change a sheet. That was all done for her by the servants. It was a sort of hysteria, which, you might like to know, is a condition known to many well-to-do women in the US. I was quite aware that she wasn’t well when I married her and I spent a fortune on a top psychiatrist in Madison Avenue. I’m sure we can make Dr Bronstein’s notes available to you if you so wish.

‘But it was all to no avail. When Robert was just eleven years old, his mother took her own life by throwing herself under a train at Grand Central Station – and before you ask, I was on business in Europe at the time. I was devastated by the news. It was a week before I was well enough to travel home.’

Robert glanced up when he heard this, but still he said nothing. Voltaire had also lapsed into silence and Pünd took over, turning his attention to Robert for the first time. ‘To lose a mother at such a young age must have been very hard.’

‘Well, I had Pa.’ Robert tried to smile. ‘You’re right, though, Mr Pünd. I adored my mother. We were alone a lot when Pa was away on business. There are days when I wake up and I still find it hard to believe she’s gone.’