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SEVEN

T here was a police driver waiting outside the hotel for Frédéric Voltaire, who grabbed the front seat, leaving Pünd and Fraser to squeeze together in the back. The Frenchman had not spoken a word since they left and sat in hostile silence as they drove along a narrow lane, following the coastline towards the port of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.

James Fraser alone seemed relaxed, his face pressed against the window, enjoying the brief glimpses of dazzling blue water in the gaps between the ancient villas and the abundance of foliage and trees. The lane climbed upwards, taking them above the port, and now he saw dinghies and sailing boats dotted haphazardly around the jetty. Everywhere he looked, there were signs of new building – cranes, scaffolding, cement mixers and clusters of workmen – as the sleepy village was rapidly transformed into a holiday resort that would attract millionaires and celebrities from all over the world.

‘What a lovely place!’ he exclaimed, as much to himself as anyone in the car.

Pünd smiled at him. In the front of the car, Voltaire and the driver behaved as if he wasn’t even there.

They took another road that crossed over to the western edge of the promontory, surrounded by sea on three sides. After a short drive, they came to a driveway that ran between two rows of poplar trees with a handsome pair of gates at the end. It was only as they slowed down that James realised they had arrived at the Chateau Belmar. The gates were open. They drove through and parked on the gravel drive next to a pair of Renault 4CVs painted black and white, with only the single word POLICE , written in small letters, revealing to whom they belonged.

The driver turned off the engine.

‘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 facade 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 the grand 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 gilded chaise 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?’

‘It would not be hanging but the guillotine,’ Voltaire remarked coldly. ‘We are fortunate to have the contents of the teapot from which Lady Chalfont took her tea. They have been sent for analysis in Marseille and we will have the results very soon.’

Harry Lyttleton had gone pale at the mention of the guillotine. Jeffrey Chalfont was unmoved.

‘Can you describe for me what occurred?’ Pünd asked. ‘Was it always your practice to take tea with your mother?’

‘Not always,’ Jeffrey replied. He took a breath. ‘She spent a lot of time in her room, but she liked to come out to the garden for afternoon tea and given how ill she was, we always made sure there was someone to sit with her.’

‘So you and Mr Lyttleton were in the garden. Who else was in the house?’

‘My stepfather was in his study. He spends all day there sometimes, writing one damn catalogue after another. He’d had lunch in Nice and he got back at three o’clock. I know because I was on the terrace and heard the clock strike in the petit salon just as his car pulled in. Béatrice was in the kitchen, I imagine. I’m not entirely sure where Cedric was. He’s my son. He’s only eight years old. He was mucking around somewhere in the garden. He does that a lot.’

‘And his mother?’

‘Lola was in her bedroom, learning her lines.’

‘She is an actress?’

‘She used to be. That’s how I met her. She was playing Mata Hari at the Theatre Royal in Norwich. She was a gorgeous young woman, I have to say. And she got the voice and the look absolutely right – but this is something rather different: a comedy musical. It’s called Where’s My Gondola? A complete waste of time. It’ll probably sink.’

Harry Lyttleton smirked, but it seemed to Pünd that Jeffrey hadn’t intended to make a joke. ‘Was there anyone else?’ he asked.

‘My wife was in Peru,’ Harry said. ‘Which is to say, that’s where she always is in her own mind. She’d have been at her desk, writing about the Nazca desert.’

Jeffrey thought for a moment. ‘That just leaves Robert,’ he said. ‘Robert Waysmith is Elmer’s son by his first marriage. I only saw him when the police were here and I didn’t ask him where he’d been. I imagine he was working at the gallery, in Nice. That’s his business. He sells art.’

‘Are the two of you close?’

‘Robert and me? We don’t have many shared interests, but we get along. I like him. I’d say we all do.’

‘So you had tea with Lady Chalfont in the gazebo. How did she seem to you?’

The two men glanced at each other as if wondering who should speak. It was Harry Lyttleton who answered. ‘She seemed to be in jolly good spirits,’ he said. ‘She hadn’t been at all herself recently, not since she got back from that trip to London. But Jeffers and I both thought she was on top form.’

‘Maybe that’s because she knew Mr Pünd was coming,’ Fraser remarked.

‘You were aware that Lady Chalfont had approached me?’ Pünd asked.

Jeffrey shook his head. ‘Judith didn’t tell us that you’d met. As a matter of fact, I’m quite annoyed with her. If we’d known there was something preying on Mama’s mind and that she felt she needed a detective, we might have been able to talk to her.’

‘That’s how she was,’ Harry added. ‘We didn’t even know the old girl was ill until a month after she’d been diagnosed. She kept everything close to her chest.’

‘But she was not anxious at the time of the tea,’ Pünd reminded them. ‘You said just now that she was in good spirits.’

‘That’s right. She was.’ Jeffrey picked up the story. ‘We talked about the garden and some of the new houses being built in the area, local gossip, that sort of stuff. Mama seemed on good form. Then Béatrice brought out the tea.’

‘Did all of you drink from the teapot?’

‘Margaret had a pot of her own,’ Harry said. ‘It was a lemon and ginger concoction, supposedly good for her health. Jeffrey and I shared the other one.’

‘The two pots were similar?’

‘Not at all. Hers was pink. Ours was blue. And hers was much smaller.’

‘We already told Mr Voltaire all this,’ Jeffrey said. ‘She complained that her tea had an odd taste. We were about to call Béatrice, but before we could do anything, she started coughing and pawing at her throat. She said the tea was burning her. Then she sat back in her chair and let out a gasp and – we had no idea what was happening – she jerked back. And then …’ his face fell ‘… she died.’

‘It was hideous!’ Harry’s eyes were filled with horror as he recalled the last moments in the garden. ‘I mean, she’d been so alive one minute and now she wasn’t breathing. Her eyes were staring and I somehow knew … I could tell at once that she was dead. But how could it have happened just like that, sitting in the sunshine, drinking tea?’

‘Did you think she might have been poisoned?’

‘No! No! No! That thought never occurred to me. I still don’t believe it now.’

‘So why, then, did you call for the police?’

‘Isn’t that what you do when someone dies? We both agreed it was the right thing to do. Jeffrey stayed with his mother. It didn’t seem decent to leave her alone. I ran to the house and called for help.’

‘Who was there?’

‘Well, I was looking for Béatrice. I don’t speak French. I had lessons at school, but I never understood a word of it. All this le , la , les stuff. Why do the Frogs need so many words for “the”?’

‘Please, Monsieur Lyttleton,’ Voltaire said. ‘Stay to the point.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I was going to explain things to Béatrice and get her to make the appropriate telephone calls. But she wasn’t on her own. Mr Lambert and his assistant had turned up out of the blue. Apparently, Lady Chalfont had invited him to the house. But it couldn’t have been worse timed.’

‘Who is Lambert?’ Pünd asked.

‘He’s the family solicitor,’ Jeffrey explained. ‘We have two solicitors. One in London, one out here. Jean Lambert deals with all legal matters relating to the chateau and to the gallery in Nice. He’s also advised Harry about his new hotel. And he drew up my mother’s will.’

Voltaire picked up on this. He leaned forward. ‘Had he come here to discuss the will?’ he asked.

‘I have no idea, Monsieur Voltaire. He stayed until the ambulance arrived, but I was too upset to talk to him. He said he had an appointment. That’s all. He was the one who called the police and the hospital in the end. He took over the situation. Maybe you should talk to him.’

‘We will,’ Voltaire assured him.