Page 33 of Marble Hall Murders

Not for the first time, Elmer Waysmith sounded utterly cold-blooded, not like a grieving husband at all.

Pünd had chosen his moment. ‘You have not asked why it was that I came here,’ he said.

‘You came here because of the murder.’

‘No, no. I explained to you that your wife invited me. She wrote me a letter.’ He drew the letter out of his pocket. He had already shown it to Voltaire. Now he unfolded it and read out loud. ‘“We have been married for six years now … But the day before I left for London … I overheard something that shocked me to my core and which I find impossible to believe. I was thinking of approaching the police, although I dreaded doing so.”’ He slid the letter back into its envelope. ‘She had clearly heard a conversation in which you had taken part. Can you explain what she might have meant, Monsieur Waysmith?’

‘Can I see that?’

‘I would prefer you to answer the question.’

He shook his head wearily. ‘I have no idea what she was talking about. Does she say it was me she overheard and who I was supposed to be talking to?’ Pünd didn’t reply. ‘Margaret spent most of her time in her room. You make it sound like she’d stumbled onto some sort of criminal conspiracy – but that’s crazy. This is the South of France, not Shanghai. The only thing that’s criminal round here are the restaurant prices!’

‘And yet you remarked just now that your son-in-law, Harry, is involved with some unsavoury characters.’

‘I didn’t say they were crooks.’

‘Could it be that she learned something that made her wish to alter her will?’

‘No! She’d have spoken to me first.’

‘Have you seen her will?’ Voltaire asked.

‘Of course. My wife and I discussed it at length. But if you think I’m going to tell you what’s in it, you’ve got another thing coming. It’s private. And I want the kids to find out first.’

‘That’s not a decision for you to make,’ Voltaire replied. ‘It is important that I know anything that is relevant to this investigation.’

‘You know nothing, Mr Voltaire. You don’t even know that my wife was poisoned.’

‘We’ll find that out very soon, Monsieur Waysmith.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. I don’t like having this sort of thing hanging over my head and the sooner it’s cleared up the better. I don’t suppose I can stop you coming to the reading of the will if you really want to, but until then it’s my business and I’m not saying anything.’

Fraser glanced at the French detective. Voltaire clearly wasn’t pleased, but, short of arresting Elmer Waysmith for refusing to cooperate, there wasn’t much he could do.

‘It was your solicitor, Maître Lambert, who drew up the will,’ Pünd said.

‘Jean Lambert. Yes. We have solicitors in London, but we’ve known him a long time and, frankly, he’s half the price. Margaret and I talked to him last summer.’

‘You are aware, I am sure, that Monsieur Lambert came to this house yesterday afternoon. He had been invited to a meeting by Lady Chalfont.’

‘She never mentioned anything to me.’

‘Could it be that she wished to speak to him about her will?’ Pünd suggested.

‘I don’t think so.’ Elmer Waysmith shook his head. ‘Thewill was signed and witnessed. Margaret knew exactly what she was doing. I have no idea why Lambert came here. There certainly wasn’t anything left to discuss, and frankly, gentlemen, I don’t think I’ve got anything more to say to you either.’

It was a dismissal. Pünd got to his feet and, moving with difficulty, Voltaire did the same. Fraser clicked the top of his biro and slipped it back into his pocket. But even as Voltaire opened the door to let them out, Pünd glanced back at the bookshelf. ‘You have an interesting collection of books, Mr Waysmith,’ he said.

‘I need them for my work.’

‘There is one volume in particular that has attracted my attention.’ Before anyone could stop him, Pünd walked behind the desk and removed a single volume that had been left jutting out slightly, separating itself from the others. He laid it on the surface.

Fraser craned down so that he could read the title. ‘Erskine’s Toxicology,’ he announced.

‘I have had reference to this very interesting book many times,’ Pünd remarked. ‘Dr Robert Erskine was a physician of the eighteenth century who became an adviser to the Tsar of Russia. He was an expert on the use and the misuse of poison and much of his knowledge is contained in this work. I would be interested to know why it was of value to you.’

‘You think I poisoned Margaret? You can go to hell, Mr Pünd. If you look on the same shelf, you’ll find a book about medieval weaponry. I didn’t stab her either.’ Elmer paused, allowing this to sink in. ‘I have a great many interests,’ he continued. ‘Many of them relating to the art world. Did youknow that Matisse and Gauguin had cadmium, a poisonous metallic element, in their paints? In the nineteenth century, William Morris used arsenic for the colours in his wallpaper. Caravaggio died of lead poisoning, and it may have been lead that drove Van Gogh mad.’