Page 14

ELEVEN

T he following morning, Pünd and Fraser were joined once more at the breakfast table by Frédéric Voltaire, but this time, having commanded the waiter to draw up a chair, he sat down with them. Pünd had slept well, although he had risen early to work on the next chapter of his book. Fraser was fresh from the swimming pool, his hair still damp. Neither of them particularly welcomed the intrusion.

For his part, Voltaire was making it clear that he had not joined them by choice. He was even more stiffly formal than he had been the day before, as if his injuries had impaired his personality as well as his movement. He had already ordered a hot chocolate, which arrived in a silver pot with a bowl of sugar cubes and a porcelain cup. He used his left hand to pour the steaming liquid for himself.

‘We do not need to be at the house until eleven o’clock,’ he explained. ‘That is when the will is being read.’

It was revealing that he had spoken only of the business at hand, without even so much as a ‘ Bonjour ’ or an enquiry after Pünd’s health. He knew, after all, that Pünd had been unwell. It was not unusual for police officers to feel threatened by the detective who had been sent to undermine them, but this was something different. Pünd felt certain that Voltaire’s hostility stemmed from something unconnected with the investigation. It was more personal.

‘Are you staying nearby, Monsieur Voltaire?’ Fraser asked, trying to break through the cold atmosphere at the table.

‘I am in a small hotel in Nice,’ Voltaire replied. ‘The S?reté would consider an establishment such as this to be too extravagant for its officers.’ He poured himself some more hot chocolate. ‘I am perfectly comfortable,’ he added hastily. ‘And I do not expect to remain here long.’

‘You believe the investigation will be over soon?’ Pünd asked.

‘I have already informed my superiors that I expect to be back in Paris early next week.’

Pünd showed his surprise. ‘I wish I shared your confidence, Monsieur Voltaire. You really think that the murder of Lady Chalfont is so straightforward?’

‘Where there’s a will, Herr Pünd, there is often a motive for murder – and if there is one thing that we have learned, it is that this is a family in need of money. The son, Jeffrey, gambles and loses. His wife, Lola, hopes to launch her career by investing in a stage production. The son-in-law, Harry, supported by his wife, Judith, tries to build a hotel and does not choose his associates wisely. And then there is the husband, Elmer Waysmith. Lady Chalfont suspected him of deceiving her, of being involved in a crime that he may deny but which nonetheless prompted her to seek advice from you.

‘We know also that she had summoned her avocat , Ma?tre Lambert, to come to the house on the very day that she died. She had spoken to him about her will, and as night follows day it seems clear to me that she was thinking to change it. This is the oldest story in the world and does not merit the attendance of a second detective, in particular one who is working in an unofficial capacity.’

Pünd was unperturbed. ‘I accept your analysis, Monsieur Voltaire,’ he began. ‘On the face of it, this crime does seem to be unremarkable. An elderly lady with a great deal of money has spoken to her solicitor about her will. She is killed before she can meet with the solicitor to inform him of her intentions. Her family hopes to inherit. Straightforward, yes – but even so, there are details which seem strange to me.’

‘Such as?’

‘Let us start with the letter written to me by Lady Chalfont. She devotes one paragraph to her second husband and the feelings that she has for him. Then she says that she has overheard something that has made the ground dissolve beneath her feet. Unfortunately, she does not say what it was she heard nor who was speaking. Even so, we can make the obvious inference. Let us say that she had discovered that Elmer Waysmith was engaged in some form of criminal activity and this had compelled her to reconsider her will. I had the very same thought when we were in the office of Monsieur Lambert in Saint-Paul-de-Vence yesterday, but almost at once I knew that something was wrong.’

‘And what was that?’

‘If Lady Chalfont feared that her husband had deceived her, she might have called her solicitor to discuss the will. Or she might have asked a detective such as myself to investigate what had occurred. But would she do both? It seems to me that one action fights against the other. If he is guilty, change the will, but do not summon a detective. If he is innocent, summon a detective, but do not change the will.’

‘And if she doesn’t know?’

‘Then wait until the truth is revealed.’

‘Perhaps she didn’t feel she had enough time.’

‘It is unfortunate that her actions certainly made this the case.’

Fraser nodded. He had taken out his notebook and began to fill a page.

‘There is also the preparation of the tea in the kitchen,’ Pünd continued. ‘We know from the housekeeper, Béatrice, that she filled the two teapots, but then left them unattended. When she returned to the kitchen, she noticed that someone had removed the lid from the pink teapot, which was the one intended for Lady Chalfont and which would contain the aconitine. But the question I would put to you is – why did the killer do this? Why did they effectively draw attention to the fact that they had been in the kitchen?’

‘That’s simple,’ Voltaire retorted. ‘They slipped into the kitchen when Béatrice left and added the poison to Lady Chalfont’s tea. However, Béatrice came back too soon and they didn’t have time to cover up what they had done. They left the lid on the side and that was that.’

‘You say it is simple. To me it is the work of less than two seconds to replace the lid, unless you are telling me that the killer was distracted or simply forgot. And I have another question. From where did this poison come?’

‘This is France, not England, Herr Pünd. Our pharmacists are much more easily persuaded to prescribe medicines which may be lethal if misused. My men are already asking in every establishment in Nice, Cannes and the surrounding villages to see if a measure of aconitine was recently sold.’

‘But why use aconitine at all? Even with the strong flavours of lemon and ginger, Lady Chalfont tasted something in her tea. She displayed the symptoms of poisoning. There are many other substances that the killer might have chosen which would have more closely resembled a heart attack, and we overheard the child – Cedric – telling his father that the garden here has many toxic plants.’

‘He’s eight years old. He knows nothing.’

‘It might still be worth asking him what he meant.’

‘In other words, there’s more to this than meets the eye.’ Fraser had spoken without thinking. He glanced at Voltaire’s disfigured face. ‘Sorry!’

‘We are not expected for another hour,’ Pünd said. ‘So I will return to my room, where I have work to do. You have your car, Monsieur Voltaire?’

‘It’s waiting by the door.’

‘Then I will meet you there.’

*

No-one was in sight when they reached the Chateau Belmar, shortly before eleven o’clock. The sun was beating down on an empty garden where the fountain was splashing magnificently but a little forlornly at the centre. Nor was there any sign of Lambert’s car. Given the splendour of the house and grounds, the tropical weather and the soft whisper of the sea, it was almost impossible to believe that less than forty-eight hours before, this had been the scene of a murder.

As they got out of the car, the front door opened and Robert Waysmith appeared, dressed in a dark suit for the reading of the will. He looked briefly over his shoulder, then moved down to join them.

‘Monsieur Voltaire, gentlemen …’ He drew a breath. ‘I was wondering if I could have a quick word with you before you went in.’

‘There is something that concerns you?’ Pünd asked. He could see that Robert was worried. He had also taken care to make sure that he wasn’t being watched or overheard.

‘I just wanted to apologise to you for yesterday. The way my father behaved …’

‘He was a man who had just received a great shock.’ Pünd’s tone was forgiving. ‘I am quite sure he did not mean to give offence.’

‘He was extraordinarily rude to you. I don’t know what he said after he sent me away, but I just wanted to tell you that he’s nothing like the man you met. He’s looked after me ever since my mother died. Yes, he can be difficult if he doesn’t get his own way. He likes to be in control. I was terrified of him when I was a child! But he’s also a reasonable man and, underneath it all, he very much loved my stepmother. So I suppose what I’m saying is, please don’t judge him too harshly. Once you get to know him, he’s not quite the monster you think.’

There was the sound of a second car arriving and Pünd turned to see Lambert and his secretary arriving in their grey Citro?n.

‘You go ahead,’ Robert muttered. ‘I’d better see to them.’

They went their separate ways, Voltaire entering the house with Pünd and Fraser close behind. There was no sign of Béatrice. They entered the main vestibule and walked towards the back of the house, passing the open door of the petit salon . Pünd heard a soft chiming and looked into the room. Sure enough, there was an oak grandfather clock, elegantly curved, standing against the far wall. He turned back towards the main entrance, now some distance behind him.

‘Do you see Monsieur Lambert?’ he asked.

Fraser turned round. There was nobody there. ‘The solicitor? No. I think he’s still outside.’

Pünd smiled. ‘That is exactly my point.’

‘Honestly, Mr Pünd. You really are quite unfathomable at times.’

Pünd smiled to himself. Voltaire was waiting for them and they moved forward to join him.

The grand salon had been prepared for the reading of the will.

Two wooden seats had been placed behind a heavy ornamental card table that had been pressed into service as a reading desk and faced the family, who were both actors in the drama that was to follow and its audience. They were already seated, spread across a variety of sofas and chairs.

Jeffrey and Lola Chalfont – both wearing black – were next to each other on one side of the room, an angry-looking Cedric leaning between them.

‘Why can’t I stay?’ he was complaining with the face of every eight-year-old who can’t get what he wants.

‘Because this is for grown-ups,’ Lola told him.

‘But Granny may have left me money in her will.’

‘If she has, we’ll tell you.’

Harry and Judith Lyttleton were on the other side, and as Pünd entered, it seemed to him that Judith was as nervous as she had been when he met her at the clinic in London. Elmer Waysmith was sitting on his own in a straight-backed chair near the door to the garden, separate from the rest of the family, his eyes focused on something in the distance. In some ways he seemed to be in control of everything that was about to happen, but at the same time, he was on the very fringes, an outsider.

Three more chairs had been set out for Pünd, Fraser and Voltaire. These were in front of the fireplace and as he sat down, Pünd noticed there was a new artwork above the mantel. The vase of tulips painted by Paul Cézanne had been removed and replaced by a very ordinary landscape. He wondered when this had happened – and why.

There was a stir in the room as Robert Waysmith came in with the avocat and his secretary. Alice Carling nodded at Robert, then sat down at the table, next to her employer. She took out a series of typewritten documents, which she placed in front of him. For his part, Robert drew up a seat near his father.

The moment had arrived.

‘Good morning,’ Lambert began. As always, and despite the hot weather, he was wearing a formal suit. He took out his pince-nez and balanced them on his nose. ‘I wish to express my condolences to all of you in this room … which is to say, Monsieur Waysmith and the family. We all loved and admired Lady Chalfont and although we had of course prepared ourselves for her loss, it is almost impossible to believe it has occurred and in such terrible circumstances. I will go so far as to say that I find it most upsetting that we have the police here today on this melancholy and private occasion. However, it makes no difference to my work, which is to inform you of Lady Chalfont’s last wishes, so I will make no further reference to it. And I will be brief.’

He glanced at the first page in front of him.

‘We must begin with the estate of Chalfont Hall in the county of Norfolk in England – the manor house itself, along with its contents and the five hundred acres of land, the various farm buildings, the tied cottages, the hunting lodge, the chapel and the two pavilions, all passed down to the seventh Earl, Jeffrey Chalfont, following the death of his father. This is a result of the male-only primogeniture system, which has been in place for many hundreds of years. As I am sure you are aware, there is also an entail which forbids the sale or division of the property. The income from the land and the tied cottages have also passed directly to the seventh Earl.

‘We therefore arrive at the considerable fortune which Lady Chalfont inherited from her first husband. There is this property. The house in St James’s, London. The private bank and funds. All of these together total approximately nine hundred thousand pounds sterling. I also have here the details of stocks and shares and other investments, which, when brought into consideration, will double that figure.’

‘So when do we get it?’ Jeffrey asked, his hands folded on his belly and a scowl on his face.

Lambert’s eyes narrowed behind his pince-nez. It was as close as he allowed himself to come to contempt. ‘I spoke at length to your mother last summer,’ he said. ‘She made certain arrangements that she wished to explain to you herself. To that end, she wrote a final communication witnessed by myself and Mademoiselle Carling in my office.’

Alice Carling had already produced a handwritten letter, a single sheet of paper, which she removed from an envelope. She passed it to the avocat , who read:

‘“I have come to a decision with respect to my will and I want it to be known that it is, without any question, my decision and mine alone. I do this without malice and with only the best intentions. I am very fond of all the young people who make up my immediate family and wish to care for them, but I sometimes question their judgement. Wealth is a great blessing, but it is my opinion that it can be destructive, if placed in the wrong hands.”’

There was an eerie silence in the room as Lady Chalfont’s last words, spoken from beyond the grave and interpreted by the elderly solicitor, hung in the air. Nobody spoke. But Jeffrey and Harry were already frowning.

‘“I am leaving the sum of twenty thousand pounds to my son, Jeffrey Chalfont, and his wife, Lola. I am leaving the same amount to my daughter, Judith, and her husband, Harry. Cedric will receive his parcel of twenty thousand pounds when he turns twenty-one, the money being held for him by Monsieur Lambert until he reaches that age. My stepson, Robert, will also receive ten thousand pounds.

‘“Apart from a few small bequests, which are listed separately, I am leaving the rest of my estate to my dear Elmer, who has been my rod and my staff since the day we met, who has never left my side and who gave me new life after the tragic loss of my beloved Henry. It is not my intention to enrich him personally. He has no need of that. It is more to protect my family that I ask him to be the custodian of my wealth. I am relying on him to provide the guidance and financial support that are needed now I am no longer there, and I end my time in this world with the comfort that the ones I love will always be cared for.”’

Lambert lowered the letter. ‘That is the end of her personal communication,’ he announced.

‘Can I see that?’ Jeffrey Chalfont had already got to his feet and almost snatched the letter out of the solicitor’s hand. There were red blotches on both his cheeks and as he read his mother’s handwriting, his eyes were bright with anger. It took him only a few seconds to gauge that the document was authentic. He turned and glared at his stepfather. ‘Did you put her up to this?’ he demanded.

‘Your mother knew exactly what she was doing,’ Elmer replied tautly.

‘That’s not true.’ Harry leapt to the defence of his friend. ‘You had her round your little finger, Elmer. You controlled everything she did. You probably only married her to get your hands on her money.’

‘That’s a disgusting lie.’

‘I don’t understand!’ Judith complained. ‘Twenty thousand pounds. Mother supported my work and what I’m trying to do. She promised me she’d help.’

‘It is a considerable amount of money, Madame Chalfont,’ Lambert assured her.

‘You don’t understand. I’m fighting an entire country. I can’t do it on my own.’

‘Why do I get half as much as everyone else?’ Robert asked, addressing his father. ‘Is that how she saw me? Only half as good as the rest of this family?’

Elmer lost his patience. ‘What makes any of you think you deserved anything! Look at you! She hasn’t been dead forty-eight hours and you’re already squabbling over her cash. Twenty thousand is more than many people earn in a lifetime, but it’s not good enough for you. However much she left you, you’d want more.’

‘Twenty thousand is one tenth of what you’re getting,’ Lola reminded him archly.

‘I’m not going to argue with you … not with any of you.’ Elmer got to his feet. ‘The will is legal, signed and sealed, with Mr Lambert and Miss Carling as witnesses. I suggest you stop sniping and listen to the rest of it.’ He suddenly swung round to face Pünd and Voltaire. ‘Have you seen enough?’ he demanded. ‘I guess you wanted to be here to see for yourself what a pack of jackals we have in this house. Well, it should be more than enough for you. Maybe you can give us a little privacy so that we can continue tearing each other apart.’

Pünd glanced at Voltaire, who nodded briefly, once. With Fraser following them, they got up and left.

*

Once they were back in the sunlight, Voltaire took out a cigarette and a matchbook he might have picked up in Nice. Fraser noticed the words H?TEL LAFAYETTE written on the cover. That presumably was where he was staying. Voltaire smoked awkwardly, his hand a claw, his fingers not quite up to the task of holding the fragile paper tube. ‘This is a most horrible family,’ he said. ‘It is obvious to me that one of them killed Lady Chalfont for her wealth. As much as they complain, twenty thousand pounds is a huge amount of money. Any one of them could have added the poison to her tea.’

‘But if she was about to change her will …?’

‘Then Elmer Waysmith would be the obvious suspect.’ Voltaire blew grey-blue smoke into the air. ‘That still remains a strong possibility. Unfortunately, we have no proof that this is what she intended, as she was dead before her solicitor arrived.’ He threw down the cigarette and ground it out. ‘My driver will take you back to the hotel.’

‘And you, Monsieur Voltaire?’

‘There are one hundred and twenty-seven pharmacists in Nice, Cannes and the surrounding area. One of them must have supplied the aconitine. That is what I am investigating, Herr Pünd. Everything else is speculation.’

He walked away.

‘May I ask something?’ Fraser said.

‘Of course, my dear James.’

‘Well, it seems to me that it has to be Elmer Waysmith who killed his wife. After all, she did write to you saying that she suspected he’d been up to no good. That would have given her a reason to cut him out of her will and he could have overheard her calling her solicitor.’

‘And what of the rest of the family?’

‘Well, it’s clearly the case that they needed the money. I wouldn’t say no to twenty thousand pounds myself! But they were going to get it anyway. Maybe in a few days. Maybe in a few weeks. All they had to do was wait.’

Pünd smiled. ‘Ah, yes. It is the question that comes up again and again.’

‘Why murder a woman who is already dying?’

‘Exactly, James. And I will give you the obvious answer, because it is, I believe, the key to everything that has happened.’

‘Why, then?’

‘Because, my friend, it does not matter.’