Page 31

EIGHTEEN

‘ I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harry Lyttleton said.

He was sitting at the head of the polished rosewood table in the petit salon , the place usually taken by Elmer Waysmith. His wife, Judith, was next to him. It was early morning, but the breakfast things had already been cleared, the surface wiped down and the last crumbs swept away by an anxious Béatrice. Harry, wearing a short-sleeved shirt, his hair perfectly groomed, looked to all intents and purposes as if the Chateau Belmar belonged to him and he had invited Pünd and Voltaire to join him for coffee.

The two detectives were next to each other a little further down the table, with James Fraser at the far end, as ever taking notes.

It was strange how the Chateau Belmar had changed. The fountain still played, the sun still shone, but there was an emptiness about the place, as if the death of Lady Chalfont had been the first symptom of a much larger death and everything – the rooms, the furniture, the decorations, the very bricks – was fading away. The house no longer belonged to the people who lived there and it was letting them know it.

Pünd and Voltaire had been shown into the room by Béatrice, who had managed to avoid meeting their eyes. Voltaire had sent a message ahead of them and Harry Lyttleton had been waiting for them with Judith. Everything was very quiet. It was quite possible that the other members of the family were in their rooms, but it was revealing that not one of them had shown up to support the man who had become Voltaire’s principal suspect.

‘It’s quite simple,’ Voltaire said, responding to Harry Lyttleton. ‘How well did you know Alice Carling?’

‘I had several meetings with Jean Lambert, who was supposed to be helping me with a hotel I’m constructing down here in Cap Ferrat, not that he was very much use, if you want the truth. She was always there, fussing around him, doing the paperwork and that sort of thing. When I telephoned Lambert, she usually answered. That was about the extent of it. Why are you even asking me?’

Voltaire caught Pünd’s eye and he took over. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Miss Carling was found dead last night.’

Sitting in the chair next to her husband, Judith Lyttleton started. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she gasped. ‘Are you saying …?’

‘She was murdered.’ As always, Voltaire went straight to the point.

‘But why …? Who …?’ All sorts of different thoughts seemed to be fighting for a place in Judith’s head, but finally she arrived at the very worst. ‘You can’t think my husband has anything to do with it!’

Voltaire ignored her. ‘You would not describe yourself as her friend?’

‘No!’ Harry Lyttleton protested.

‘Or did you have a relationship that was even closer?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harry Lyttleton snapped. ‘You’re disgusting. I’m a very happily married man and my relationship with Miss Carling was entirely professional.’

‘Then perhaps you can explain this, Mr Lyttleton …’

Voltaire had taken out the photograph, which he laid on the table. He had deliberately positioned it so that both the husband and the wife could see it. If Judith had been shocked by the news of Alice’s death, the picture completely horrified her. ‘Where did you get this?’ she demanded.

‘Miss Carling had it with her when she died,’ Voltaire told her.

‘But …’ She tore her eyes away from the image and turned to her husband, demanding an explanation.

‘I don’t know where she got this,’ Harry protested. ‘I can’t even remember when it was taken.’

‘Perhaps it would be more helpful, Mr Lyttleton, to explain to us why Miss Carling would have been carrying it with her and why she should have chosen, it would seem, to have marked it with an impression of her lips.’

‘You’d have to ask her that.’ Harry ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it out of his eyes. ‘Of course, you can’t. That was stupid of me.’ He took a moment to compose himself. ‘I barely spoke to Miss Carling. If you’re suggesting, because of this photograph, that she had certain feelings for me, all I can say is that I wasn’t remotely aware of them.’

‘And yet Miss Carling had informed us that she was engaged to be married.’ Pünd had taken over the interrogation. ‘Does the name Charles Saint-Pierre mean anything to you?’

‘I’ve never heard it before. And how could I possibly have been engaged to her? Judith and I have been together for seventeen years.’

‘Eighteen years,’ Judith said.

‘It may well be that the young woman was a fantasist. But it is undoubtedly the case that she believed herself to be in a relationship with a man whose identity she attempted to conceal. She had informed Monsieur Lambert that she was soon to leave his employment. It seems very likely that her supposed fiancé picked her up in his car on the last day of her life and drove her to the place where she was later found dead.’

‘Do you have a car?’ Voltaire asked.

‘I drive a Renault 4CV.’

‘What colour?’

‘Blue.’

‘We will also need the registration number.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Judith cut in. ‘You’re saying that my husband picked this woman up in her village. What time was it?’

‘We believe that it was some time after three o’clock on Sunday afternoon.’

‘Well, that’s impossible.’ Judith’s face was flushed with a mixture of relief and indignation. ‘Harry was here with me.’

‘We have only your word for that, Madame Lyttleton.’

‘Are you calling me a liar, Mr Voltaire? We had lunch with Jeffrey and Lola and then we sat and read in the garden. You could talk to Cedric, although he may not have much idea of the time. He was swimming and then he lay on the grass with his comic. I even spoke to him briefly.’

‘How long were you there?’ Pünd asked.

‘Judith was giving a talk at the Church of Saint-Jean-Baptiste just down the road,’ Harry Lyttleton explained. ‘She spoke for ninety minutes about the Quechua and Aymara cultures …’

‘In French?’

‘I do speak fluent French, Monsieur Voltaire, as well as Peruvian Spanish and ancient Greek. But the audience was entirely English and American.’

‘The talk started at five o’clock,’ Harry Lyttleton continued. ‘Afterwards, we had supper at the Royal Riviera. We got home at about nine.’

‘I’m sure a great many people saw us,’ Judith added. There was acid in her voice. ‘In fact, now I think of it, the Frobishers were there. Lance and Lettie. We spoke to them as we arrived.’

‘Can you also tell us about your movements on the day Lady Chalfont died?’ Voltaire weighed in. If he was disappointed by the fortuitous appearance of Lance and Lettie Frobisher, he was careful not to show it. ‘I would like to know in particular where you were at midday.’

‘I was in Nice,’ Harry replied.

‘For what purpose?’

‘Is it really any of your business?’

Now Voltaire was angry. ‘This is a police investigation into not one but two murders, Monsieur Lyttleton. You should know that we have been taking an interest in you for some time. You are involved with several people who might call themselves businessmen but whose businesses encompass only fraud, money-laundering and embezzlement. It is remarkable that you have not been arrested yet, but I would advise you that if you do not give me straight answers to my questions, this is something that could rapidly change.’

Harry Lyttleton blinked rapidly. ‘It’s my wife’s birthday in two weeks’ time. I went into Nice to buy her a present.’

‘And did you?’

‘No. It was more of a window-shopping expedition.’

‘You did not by any chance visit a pharmacie in the Rue Lafayette?’

‘Why would I have wanted to do that, Mr Voltaire?’ Harry snapped. ‘I’m not sure I even know where the Rue Lafayette is, and I didn’t go into any pharmacy.’

‘Did you meet anyone?’

‘No – and I’m not sure anyone will have seen me, although I did spot Elmer in the Place Masséna. I don’t think he saw me though. He was in a tearing hurry, making for the gallery.’

‘What time was that?’

‘A little bit before half past twelve.’

Judith got to her feet. ‘We’ve had enough of this!’ she announced. ‘You come into our house making unfounded allegations. You have no evidence apart from a photograph that you say was in Miss Carling’s possession. What’s that got to do with Harry? She could have been carrying a photograph of the pope and would you have added him to the list of suspects? If she was infatuated, that’s her problem. Harry is a very good-looking man. But I don’t see why we should stay here a minute more.’

Pünd was unperturbed. ‘I have one more question, if I may,’ he said.

Harry glanced at his wife, who had moved to stand at his shoulder. He had clearly enjoyed her brief tirade and seemed more relaxed than he had when the interview began. ‘Please go ahead, Mr Pünd,’ he said.

‘It is not a question for you, but for your wife, Mr Lyttleton.’ He paused briefly. ‘How well did you know Alice Carling?’ he asked.

Judith looked puzzled, as if the question was irrelevant to everything that had gone before. ‘I hardly knew her at all.’

‘And yet you had met her how many times?’

‘I can’t say. She was there when the will was read – and I can’t for the life of me understand what my mother was thinking of when she made that arrangement. I may have seen her once or twice last year. But I hardly ever spoke to her.’

‘That is exactly what I would have thought.’ Pünd looked pained, as if he was unwilling to continue. ‘But as we were speaking just a few moments ago, you asked a question. You wanted to know at what time Miss Carling was picked up from her village. You made the point that it could not possibly have been your husband driving the car.’

‘That’s right. It’s a ludicrous suggestion. So what’s your point, Mr Pünd?’

‘Only that I wonder how you knew that Miss Carling lived in a village.’ Pünd smiled. ‘She could have lived in Nice or in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, which is much more than a village and would, I think, be described as a town. She could have lived in a farm in the middle of the countryside. If you and your husband knew nothing of her personal life, how did you come to that conclusion?’

There was a stunned silence. Judith looked by turns shocked, angry and physically sick, steadying herself by gripping the back of her husband’s chair.

Harry took over. She had defended him and now he did the same for her. ‘I think you’re reading too much into it, Mr Pünd,’ he remarked languidly. ‘I doubt if Miss Carling was earning very much money. If she didn’t have a car, she’d have to live somewhere near her office and Saint-Paul-de-Vence is surrounded by villages.’

‘It still struck me as more than a random observation, Mr Lyttleton.’

‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ Judith insisted. ‘I have no idea where the silly girl lived. It could have been a pigsty for all I care. And we’re not answering any more of your questions, so you might as well leave.’

*

‘She is lying,’ Pünd said.

He and Voltaire had left through the back of the house and were walking in the garden. In front of them, they could see the gazebo where Lady Chalfont had died. A gardener was crossing the lawn with a wheelbarrow, but otherwise there was nobody around.

‘She also lied to us when we first arrived at the chateau,’ Pünd continued. ‘She was present in London when her mother asked for my help, but she claimed she had told no-one: “ I didn’t think it was important .” And yet Lady Chalfont had impressed upon me the urgency of her request. Later, Judith Lyttleton claimed that her mother often kept secrets and that she had forgotten all about it. This makes no sense. And there is something else.’

‘What’s that?’ Fraser asked.

‘At the clinic in London, it struck me that she was nervous. It was almost as if she knew what was going to happen.’

‘It’s just annoying that the two of them seem to have a secure alibi for both the time Alice Carling was picked up and the time she was murdered,’ Voltaire said. ‘I’m going to check out the Royal Riviera and I’ll talk to those people they claimed they met. I’ll also visit the church where Dr Lyttleton gave her talk. I’ll let you know what I find – but I have a feeling they have an alibi that is as solid as rock.’

‘It’s almost as if they arranged it that way.’

‘Yes. You could say that.’

Voltaire walked back into the house, leaving Pünd and Fraser alone.

‘It is sad,’ Pünd muttered, almost to himself.

‘You mean the death of Lady Chalfont.’

‘More than that.’ Pünd waved a hand at the gazebo. ‘All of this is beautiful, is it not? It could have come out of one of the paintings that Mr Waysmith and his son sell in their gallery. A Fragonard, perhaps, or a Watteau. But what will people remember it for, a hundred, two hundred years from now?’

‘Murder.’

‘Exactly, James. Buildings, like people, can be scarred with the mark of Cain and it will never leave them. We remember the houses where people became ill and died and the memory brings sadness and a sense of loss. But with murder it is something different. We do not wish to enter such a place. It carries with it a sense of fear and even revulsion.’

‘Do you think Harry Lyttleton murdered Alice Carling?’

‘I think he knows more than he is telling us. Judith Lyttleton too.’

‘Maybe they were the ones who cut open the letter that Lady Chalfont sent you, inviting you here.’

‘It is possible, James. And it was not the only communication that was intercepted. You will recall the letter that she wrote to me, summoning me to the Chateau Belmar. That, too, had been read.’

‘How do you know?’

‘There were two creases in the centre of the page. It had been folded, then taken out of the envelope and folded a second time. It suggested to me from the very start that somebody had been keeping a close watch on Lady Chalfont, the same person who took my reply and opened it using a knife with a serrated edge.’

‘That could only have been her husband.’ Fraser gave a start. ‘I say, Mr Pünd. I’ve just thought of something! Harry Lyttleton told us that he saw Elmer in the Place Masséna and that he was in a tearing hurry. That was when he was on his way to have lunch with his son. But the woman in the gallery – Madame Dubois or whatever her name was – said that he usually parked his car in the square and he was completely relaxed when he arrived.’

‘There is indeed a contradiction here.’

Before Pünd could continue, they were interrupted by two sharp explosions. Fraser twisted round to see a gun pointing at them from the side of the pagoda. He frowned. ‘Are you really sure this is the right time to go around the place shooting people?’ he asked.

Cedric Chalfont stepped into sight, carrying the cap pistol he had just fired at them. The eight-year-old was wearing a cowboy hat and had a sheriff’s star pinned to his shirt. In his imagination, he was far away from the South of France, searching for outlaws. He wasn’t put off by Fraser’s criticism. ‘You’re both dead!’ he exclaimed.

‘I think you missed,’ Fraser remarked. ‘Anyway, Mr Pünd here is a very famous detective. You’d be in a lot of trouble if you shot him.’

Cedric lowered the gun. He knew who Pünd was and he was glad to meet him. ‘Am I a suspect?’ he asked.

‘You tell me,’ Pünd replied. ‘Should you be?’

‘Yes!’ Cedric nodded vigorously. ‘I didn’t like Grandma. She made us come out to the chateau every year and I don’t enjoy it here. I’m on my own the whole time. Nobody ever plays with me. I’m bored.’ Another thought occurred to him. ‘I know lots about poisons. I can help you, if you like.’

‘We most certainly need help,’ Pünd replied. ‘I understand that there are a great many poisons growing in this garden.’

‘Do you want to see?’

‘If you can show us, I would be most grateful.’

Cedric tucked his gun away. He was now imagining himself as a detective’s assistant, which was much more fun. ‘Follow me!’ he said.

They set off, moving further away from the house and into the wilder stretches of the grounds.

‘There are lots of varieties,’ Cedric said. ‘Sometimes Bruno shows them to me. He’s the head gardener and he doesn’t like it here either because he says they don’t pay him enough. He gave me some deadly nightshade once. Atropa belladonna .’ He enunciated the syllables carefully. ‘I brought it in for dinner, but Grandma took it off me and made me wash my hands. There’s white lilies over there. They’re poisonous to dogs.’ He pointed to an orchard. ‘And there’s something called “a shiverful of eyes” that Bruno told me about, although I haven’t found any yet.’

‘A shiverful of eyes?’ Fraser asked.

‘It is possible that Cedric means chèvrefeuille des haies ,’ Pünd explained. ‘It is a toxic plant which I came across when I was writing The Landscape of Criminal Investigation . There is a chapter on poisons, although it appears only in the glossary.’

‘I’m not sure which sounds worse,’ Fraser muttered.

Cedric was hurrying ahead and finally reached a fruit and vegetable garden with nets stretched out over ripening clumps of raspberries. He stopped just outside the entrance and pulled a handful of leaves out of a piece of rough ground. ‘Here you are!’ he announced proudly. ‘This is monkshood.’

He was holding an entire plant with spiky dark green leaves and mauve flowers shaped like hoods – obviously the reason for the name. He was holding it out for Pünd to take. But the detective stepped away. ‘I would suggest you drop that immediately,’ he said. ‘You are certainly well informed about the toxic plants that grow in this garden, but even to touch this one can do you harm. Please leave it and clean your hands immediately on the grass.’

‘I’ve handled it lots of times,’ Cedric replied, but he did as Pünd had told him, first wiping his hands on damp grass, and then drying them on the sides of his shorts.

‘You would make an excellent detective,’ Pünd told him. ‘But I would also like to test your powers of observation. Did you happen to be out in the garden on Sunday afternoon?’

Cedric nodded. ‘I was out here all afternoon. I went swimming and then I read my Archie comic.’

‘Can you tell me who you saw?’

Cedric fell silent as he gathered his thoughts.

‘Mummy and Daddy had lunch with Uncle Harry and Aunt Judith,’ he said, at length. ‘Uncle Robert was with them. He’s not really my uncle, but that’s what I call him. He’s always nice to me and everyone likes him, except for his father, who’s always shouting at him. They had cold salmon and boiled potatoes, but they didn’t enjoy it very much. They were cross because Grandma gave all her money to Elmer. No-one likes Elmer any more because he wants to control them, and if they ever want any of the money, they’re going to have to ask him! Grandma left me lots of money in her will, but I’m not allowed to have it until I’m twenty-one.

‘Uncle Harry stayed in the garden after lunch, but only for a bit. Then he went out in his car. Uncle Robert came for a swim and he asked me what I was reading, but then he went inside too.’

‘Do you know what time that was?’ Pünd asked.

Cedric shook his head. ‘I didn’t have my watch because if it gets wet, it won’t work any more. Everybody else went inside. They always drink too much wine and then they go to sleep after lunch. I didn’t see anyone else except Bruno and he was too busy to speak to me.’

Pünd nodded. ‘You have done very well, Cedric, and you have been very helpful. But perhaps it would be best if you did not mention that we talked.’

‘I’d like to be a detective when I’m grown-up. Or a murderer. I think they both sound fun.’

‘I would recommend the former.’

Cedric ran off. Once again, Pünd and Fraser were alone.

‘So, Harry Lyttleton wasn’t here all afternoon,’ Fraser said.

‘He said he drove his wife to a lecture that began at five o’clock – which seems to leave little time to meet with Alice Carling in La Gaude, drive her to a beach and strangle her.’ Pünd walked a few steps in silence. ‘It is interesting that the child should have known exactly where to find monkshood. You know that it has another name, James.’

‘Don’t they call it wolfsbane?’

‘You have a good memory!’ Pünd beamed. It was Fraser, of course, who had typed the chapter on poisons in his book. ‘It is also called leopard’s bane and devil’s helmet, but chemists will know it as aconite.’

‘Is it related to aconitine?’

‘They are very much the same.’

‘So if Elmer Waysmith wanted to poison his wife, he didn’t need to go to a chemist at all.’ Fraser remembered the conversation he had been having with Pünd before Cedric interrupted them. ‘If it was Elmer Waysmith in the Rue Lafayette,’ he added.

Pünd stopped and sighed. ‘It had to be Elmer Waysmith. It should have been Elmer Waysmith. Who else but Elmer Waysmith had a motive to kill Lady Margaret Chalfont and perhaps also Alice Carling, if he had tricked her into helping him with his crime? And yet, James, there is one thing that persuades me that there is more to all this than we are seeing. We are up against a mind of great cunning and ingenuity and the killer has so far made just one mistake.’

‘And what was that?’

‘The empty bottle of shoe polish that was left in the bedroom of the H?tel Lafayette. It tells us almost everything we need to know and soon, very soon, the puzzle will be solved.’

Pünd walked off. Fraser, as baffled as ever, followed.