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NINE

E lmer Waysmith was sitting slumped behind his desk in the study that adjoined his bedroom. The energy seemed to have drained out of him. There were bags under his eyes. With his white hair, he had already looked older than his sixty-seven years, but the sudden death of his wife might have added another ten. He was wearing a grey cotton blazer with a silk handkerchief poking out of the top pocket, although from the look of him, he would have been more comfortable in a morning suit. But who brings black to the South of France?

The study was a square room with a single window, which even when fully open did not allow enough air to circulate. Much of the space was taken up by an ornate Mazarin bureau piled high with papers, newspaper clippings, photographs, receipts and certificates. Three of the walls were covered by bookshelves that only added to the sense of claustrophobia. The books largely related to the world of art, with monographs and biographies in several languages, but there were dictionaries, encyclopaedias and reference books covering a wide range of subjects. Elmer had a fountain pen in front of him. He had been working on his new catalogue and there were several pages covered in turquoise ink.

A silk-covered divan with scroll legs had been placed under the window and this was where Robert Waysmith was sitting. He, too, looked exhausted. He had not shaved and a dark shadow seemed to be spreading across his face. He was examining his father with watchful eyes, waiting to hear what he might say next, nervous of what it might be.

‘We’ll have the funeral in England.’

‘In Norfolk?’

‘Of course it will be in Norfolk. Where do you expect it to be? Paddington Station?’

‘Whatever you say, Pa.’

Elmer wiped a hand across his brow as if to excuse his bad temper. It was grief, of course. Robert knew that he had to make allowances. His father had been married to Margaret Chalfont for six years and although she had never taken his name, the two of them could not have been closer. ‘Madame Dubois will make the arrangements,’ he went on. ‘She’ll know what to do.’

Robert nodded, something almost like a smile touching his lips. Madame Dubois had shipped paintings and sculptures all over Europe. Now she would do the same for his stepmother. ‘I can’t believe this is happening again,’ he muttered, almost to himself.

‘What?’ Elmer looked up sharply, his grey eyebrows rising.

‘Nothing, Pa.’

‘I heard what you said. “Again”. What do you mean by that? Are you suggesting that Margaret …?’

‘The police are saying that someone poisoned her. But isn’t it possible that she could have killed herself?’

‘No, Robert. It is not possible! She would never have done that! She was ill. She knew her time was limited. But she lived every day to the full and she loved every minute that was given to her. She had no reason to take her own life.’

‘Unlike my mother.’

Elmer gazed at his son with barely controlled fury in his eyes. ‘Your mother was a sick woman, Robert. She didn’t know what she was doing. You know that.’

‘So what’s the alternative, Pa? That someone in the family deliberately killed Margaret? One of us?’

‘I never said that. And the simple truth is that this damn fool detective from Paris has got it wrong. Margaret’s heart gave out exactly as the doctor said and exactly as we knew it would. It was only a matter of time.’ Elmer picked up the fountain pen and clipped it into his pocket. ‘Unless you think I had something to do with it …’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You don’t need to. I can see it in your face. You’re not married. I sometimes wonder if you’re even capable of falling in love. But Margaret and I were perfectly suited. I loved everything about her. I know it was difficult for you, Robert, losing your mother, and maybe you never forgave me for marrying again. There’s nothing I can do about that. But I saw a chance for happiness and I grabbed it. I make no apology. And now – now that she’s gone – I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ There was a break in Elmer’s voice and his eyes clouded over. ‘I have nothing left to live for.’

‘You have the gallery. You have me.’

Elmer said nothing. The room felt hotter and more airless than ever.

‘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, elegantly dressed 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 S?reté 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.’

‘But your father has cared for you.’

‘Yes. He brought me up.’

‘My son and I are in business together,’ Elmer Waysmith explained. ‘We run an art gallery here in Nice and there’s a second gallery in London. We divide the year between the two.’

‘You enjoy the work?’ Pünd was still examining Robert as if there was something about him he didn’t understand.

‘To be honest, it wasn’t my first choice, but I like it well enough.’

‘Robert wanted to be a painter,’ Elmer explained. ‘That didn’t work out, so he trained to be a lawyer.’

‘I wasn’t any good at that either,’ Robert said. ‘I’m glad I’ve found something I can actually do.’

‘And what of Lady Margaret Chalfont? Again, it may not be something you wish to answer, but when your father announced that he intended to remarry, it cannot have been easy for you.’

Robert Waysmith shrugged. ‘He was happy and that was all that mattered.’

‘But what of your happiness, Robert?’

‘Lady Chalfont was extremely kind to me from the day we met. She did everything she could to make me feel wanted. Jeffrey and Judith were the same.’

‘How did you meet Lady Chalfont?’ Voltaire asked Elmer Waysmith.

‘I was introduced to her by a mutual friend who was arranging her insurance. She had a number of paintings at her home in Norfolk and she had absolutely no idea of their value. This was long after her husband had died. We became friends and shortly afterwards we married.’

‘How did her children feel about that?’ Voltaire asked.

‘It wasn’t easy for them.’ Elmer lit a cigarette. ‘Of course, we had our run-ins to begin with. They were both suspicious of me. Why wouldn’t they be? I had to persuade them that I wasn’t after their mother’s fortune, that I had a successful business that would bring in all the money I needed. But I didn’t care about them. Let me tell you something about me and Margaret.’

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice caught.

‘I would have married her if she hadn’t had a penny in the world. She was a brilliant woman. Witty, clever, beautiful. We were both of us in our later years and we were going to make each day count – until this foul illness struck.’ He lifted a hand and covered his eyes. ‘Robert, do you mind leaving me alone with these gentlemen for a moment?’

‘Of course, Pa. Are you OK?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

Robert glanced at Voltaire, asking his permission. Voltaire nodded. Robert got up and left.

Elmer waited until he had gone, then drew a breath. ‘I hate my son to see me like this,’ he said.

Voltaire and Pünd waited for him to compose himself. Fraser crossed the room and sat on the divan.

‘I need to explain something about the Chalfont family,’ Elmer continued. He had become less aggressive now that his son was no longer in the room. ‘I didn’t want Robert to hear it because it’s not something we’ve discussed and I don’t think it’s appropriate that he should!

‘You asked me about my relationship with Jeffrey and Judith just now and I didn’t tell you the truth. The fact is, they resented me when I married their mother and they still do. The same goes for Lola and Harry. And it’s a two-way street. All four of them were a cause of endless concern to Margaret. In fact, she was worried sick about them.

‘First of all, there’s Jeffrey. He’s inherited the title and the land and – boy – he likes to let you know it! He has an estate manager, tenant farmers, groundsmen, servants, and he treats them all like dirt. I’m American. I can’t pretend to understand how the British aristocracy works, but he’s the seventh Earl and that seems to give him a licence to behave as badly as he likes. And there’s another side to him that you need to know. He gambles. You ask at the casinos around here. He’s well known to every one of them. He doesn’t win, of course, and the sums he’s losing are beginning to mount up. His father left him plenty of cash, but Margaret had no idea how much of it is left and he had no intention of telling her.

‘Judith is extremely intelligent, but don’t be fooled by that quiet ethnologist act of hers. She’s a tough cookie and she’ll do anything to protect her husband, which includes taking his side against me. And she’s got her eye on the main prize, just like him. She wants money to fight the Peruvian government over some sort of South American Stonehenge in the desert. And speaking of Harry Lyttleton – he was at school with Jeffrey. The two of them were in the first eleven cricket team. Harry has no money. Maybe that’s why he keeps so close to Jeffrey. He calls himself a businessman and right now he’s trying to develop a hotel, but so far it’s brought him nothing but a truckload of trouble.

‘He’s a year behind schedule, way over budget and he hasn’t even laid the first brick. Worse still, I understand he’s managed to get himself involved with some pretty unsavoury characters. You might as well know that Harry has been demanding financial support from his mother-in-law – and from me.’ Elmer shook his head. ‘I looked into his accounts and it’s just good money after bad, which is exactly what I told Margaret. She agreed. But that hasn’t stopped him badgering us.

‘Lola completes the pack. I like her. She’s feisty and she doesn’t want to sit around on her backside, which does her credit. But she’s got this idea of going back onto the stage – she was an actress when she met Jeffrey, although she gave it all up to become a fully licensed countess. Well, she wants money too. She had this idea that Margaret would pay for her big comeback. Two thousand pounds – that’s what she asked for to finance some musical set in Venice. She pays for the production, she gets the part and if things go wrong, they go down together.’

Voltaire considered. ‘You might say that everyone in the household had a motive to kill your wife, Monsieur Waysmith. They all wanted money. Does that include you?’

‘She was going to die anyway, Monsieur Voltaire. Or had you forgotten that little fact!’

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, Ma?tre 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. ‘The will 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 you know 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.’

He had proved his point. Elmer picked up the book and returned it to the shelf. He was still standing there, watching them silently, as Pünd, Voltaire and Fraser left the room.

‘Are you satisfied?’ Voltaire asked as soon as they were on the other side of the door. His tone was scathing.

‘I think I learned a great deal from both father and son,’ Pünd replied.

‘And what was that?’ Voltaire demanded.

‘Mr Elmer Waysmith was an extremely handsome man when he was young. You only to have to look at young Robert. It is surprising that he is still single. There is a definite tension between the father and son, although they are remarkably similar. In fact, I would say that there is a great deal of anger and hatred here at the Chateau Belmar.’

‘But nobody hated Lady Chalfont,’ Fraser said.

‘Exactly, my friend. So why was she the one who had to die?’