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TEN

‘ A re you sure you’re up for this, Mr Pünd?’

‘I believe I am.’

‘I just hope you’re not overdoing it. If you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘It is most kind of you to be concerned, James. But we will return to the hotel after this visit and we can rest later in the afternoon.’

‘That’s marvellous. They’ve got this amazing pool I’ve discovered. There’s a funicular railway going down the hillside. Maybe you’ll join me for a dip.’

‘I think I will remain in my room – but please go ahead.’

Pünd and Fraser were once again in the back of the Renault with Voltaire in the front seat and a police driver. They had followed the coast and then turned inland. Now they were climbing up a winding road into the hills. Saint-Paul-de-Vence was a medieval walled town that did not admit traffic. They parked outside the tower gate, which soared above them, its machicolations framed against the sky, and walked through the archway and into the main street. It was now mid-afternoon and the sun was at its hottest. Pünd took care navigating the steep pathway, while this time it was Voltaire who, brisk and impatient, strode ahead.

Jean Lambert’s office was about halfway up. He occupied just two rooms, one behind the other, with a discreet sign beside the front door and a bell. Voltaire rang and a moment later they were admitted by a plain-looking young woman with dark hair fastened tightly at the back of her head, pale skin and heavy glasses that did not suit her face. She was wearing a businesslike dress and thick leather shoes. It seemed to Pünd that she was a prisoner of her own wardrobe and perhaps of her job too. She was still in her twenties. He wondered how much time she spent tucked away behind the town walls.

‘I am Frédéric Voltaire. This is Herr Pünd and his assistant.’

‘James Fraser,’ Pünd added. It was clear that Voltaire had felt no need to introduce him by name.

The young woman spoke a few words to Voltaire in French and then continued in perfect English. ‘Do please come in,’ she said. ‘I’m Alice Carling. Monsieur Lambert is just finishing a telephone call, but you can wait here. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘A glass of water, please,’ Pünd said, exhausted from the climb.

‘Of course.’

There was barely enough space for them in the anteroom, which was furnished simply with a desk, an assortment of not very comfortable chairs and a small fridge. She took out a bottle of Evian and poured a glass for Pünd.

‘You are English?’ Pünd asked.

‘Half and half,’ Alice replied. ‘English father, French mother. My father was wounded at Ypres in the First War and she was the nurse who looked after him.’

Pünd smiled. It was a story he had heard before, although it was unusual for a young Englishman to leave his own country. ‘He chose to remain in France?’ he asked.

‘He was very angry about the war. He still talks about it – the incompetence, the waste, the loss of so many young lives. He never wanted to go back to England.’

‘And how many people had he killed before he came to that decision?’ Voltaire asked.

Alice didn’t answer, but Pünd glanced briefly at the French detective, beginning to understand him. ‘How long have you been with Monsieur Lambert?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Four years. My father knew him because they played boules together in the Place de Gaulle and he said he was looking for an assistant.’

‘Did you know Lady Chalfont well?’

‘No. I hardly knew her at all.’

Alice was clearly uncomfortable, but she was saved by the opening of the inner door. Jean Lambert was suddenly standing there, dressed in an old-fashioned suit complete with pocket watch, wing collar and pince-nez, as if he was deliberately trying to model himself on a character in a novel by Dickens – or perhaps Zola.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I apologise for keeping you waiting. Please will you come into my office.’ His English was excellent, if accented. ‘Mademoiselle Carling, you will join us and take notes.’

Fortunately, the office was larger than the anteroom and more comfortable and cooler, with views looking out to the medieval walls as they curved round the back of the town. Jean Lambert took his place behind his desk, with Alice to one side. Chairs had been arranged for the three visitors.

‘How can I help you, messieurs?’ he asked, although in a way that suggested there was very little he could do.

‘You must have been saddened by the death of your client, Lady Chalfont,’ Pünd began.

‘A great shock. Yes. Although, of course, I was aware of her illness.’

‘She had confided in you?’

‘I had helped her with her affairs for many years. I also advised her late husband, Lord Chalfont, when he was purchasing the Chateau Belmar. As you may imagine, a large amount of my work is involved with property because of the amount of development that is occurring here. A great many wealthy Englishmen are purchasing homes in the C?te d’Azur, although rarely are they quite as splendid as the Chateau Belmar. I was most sad to hear that she was unwell, although I had not expected the end to be so soon.’

‘It is my belief that Lady Chalfont may have been murdered,’ Voltaire announced.

Alice Carling looked terrified. As usual, the man from the S?reté had not minced his words. ‘It’s not true,’ she whispered.

‘Why do you say that, mademoiselle?’

‘I mean … who would do such a thing?’ All the colour had drained out of her face.

The avocat examined her, concerned. ‘Are you all right, Mademoiselle Alice?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry. It’s just so hard to believe.’

‘I entirely agree with you!’ He turned back to Voltaire. ‘I know the family intimately and I think you are making a grave mistake. Lady Chalfont was a kind and generous woman who was loved by everyone who knew her. Nobody could have had a reason to do her harm.’

‘You are reading the will tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Monsieur Voltaire. I hope you are not going to ask me to reveal the contents today.’

‘There is no need for that.’ Pünd took over the conversation and continued more gently. ‘But there is something that I do wish to know. I understand you arrived at the chateau at exactly the moment that Lady Chalfont died. Can you tell me why you were there?’

‘I can see no reason not to tell you, Monsieur Pünd. I received a telephone call from Lady Chalfont the day before she went to London for a medical appointment. She asked to see me at the villa once she got back and suggested a day and a time.’

‘Did she give some indication of the reason?’

‘She said only that it concerned her will. I had the sense that she did not wish to speak on the telephone.’ Lambert hesitated. He was not the sort of man to overdramatise events. ‘She was under a great deal of strain. She did not sound well at all.

‘At any event, acting on her instructions, I arrived at the villa at the appointed time and was met by Monsieur Harry Lyttleton. I know him well.’

‘He’s a client?’ Pünd asked.

‘He was. I helped him with the purchase of land close to Cap Ferrat, where he was planning to build a hotel, and I also gave him my opinion concerning a number of loans he was seeking.’ He paused. ‘Sadly, Monsieur Lyttleton did not accept my advice and it was because of this that I felt I could no longer assist him.’

‘You advised against the loans?’

‘I had concerns about the people who were providing them.’

Jean Lambert seemed to have forgotten his earlier reticence. Or perhaps he was making an exception for Harry, owing to their having fallen out.

‘And how was Mr Lyttleton when you met him?’ Pünd enquired.

‘He was in a state of considerable shock. Lady Chalfont had died as she took tea in the gazebo. He urged me to call for an ambulance – and the police. He did not speak French and felt he was unable to do it himself.’

There was a brief silence as Pünd considered what had just been said. Lambert had told him something that did not make complete sense. ‘When exactly did Lady Chalfont call you?’ he asked.

‘I can’t recall exactly. It was the middle of last week.’

‘It was the Wednesday,’ Alice said. ‘She rang at half past one in the afternoon. I took the call and transferred it to Ma?tre Lambert.’

Lambert smiled for the first time. ‘You see how lucky I am to have Mademoiselle Carling as my assistant. I will miss her.’

‘You’re leaving?’ Fraser asked.

‘I’m getting married.’

‘How marvellous. Who’s the lucky man?’

Alice looked away, blushing. ‘His name is Charles Saint-Pierre. He is a doctor in Grasse.’

‘He is a very lucky man,’ Lambert said. ‘And for me, I will need not just a new secretary but a driver. Perhaps it is also time for me to consider retirement. I am fifty-eight years old. My wife has said to me that we should be spending more time together.’

He stood up, signalling that the meeting was over.

‘You will be present tomorrow?’

‘We’ll be there,’ Voltaire assured him.

The three men left the office and walked back down through the town and out to the car park where their driver was waiting. A second police officer had also arrived on a motorbike. As Voltaire approached, he saluted and handed him a folded slip of paper. Voltaire opened it and read. He dismissed the policeman with a flick of the wrist.

‘Lady Chalfont did not die of a heart attack,’ he said, turning to Pünd. ‘The analysis from Marseille shows that at least two grams of the poison aconitine had been added to her tea. More than enough to kill her.’

He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

‘It is exactly as I told you this morning when we met. This was not a natural death. Lady Chalfont was murdered.’