Page 5

TWO

F our days had passed since Atticus Pünd had visited the clinic in Harley Street and he was up bright and early in his office in Clerkenwell Square, working through the most recent pages of his book, which James Fraser had typed for him. The Landscape of Criminal Investigation had become the main priority in his life and, given the slow progress of his illness, he was beginning to think there was a chance he could finish it, even if he might not have the time to correct all his assistant’s typing errors and spelling mistakes. Well, a publisher would see to all that. It was the content that mattered.

He drew a page towards him and began to read. He knew that he had to be careful. If he worked non-stop, after a couple of hours the typescript would give him a headache that would knock him off his feet. He had to measure himself. Thirty minutes of concentration, then either a walk in the fresh air or a cup of tea, perhaps with a piece by Brahms or Schubert on the gramophone. But the section he had just completed was a fascinating one. It was in a chapter called ‘The Killer Tells All’.

He read:

Just as a poker player has what is called a ‘tell’, so the murderer will give himself away by involuntary behaviour, particularly when he is under pressure. I have named this phenomenon ‘The Tell-All’ and it once manifested itself in two quite different ways during the same investigation. I have already discussed the case of Eileen Marino, a very attractive and intelligent woman with two children and a career in journalism. She had attempted to persuade me that she very much loved her husband, Paul, a successful lawyer, even though, as it later became clear, she had stabbed him to death on their return from the theatre.

I was interviewing her in the sitting room of their Chiswick home and for thirty minutes she had been completely relaxed. During our conversation, her pet dog pushed open the door and came into the room and it was from that moment that I noticed a marked difference in her attitude. She was nervous and ill at ease. This was her first ‘tell’. What was it that had made the difference? For a long time, I assumed that it must be something to do with the animal (which had curled up in front of the fire). Could it be that the dog had been a silent witness to the crime? There was, incidentally, nothing outside the door – not that I could see.

The answer only became apparent to me when I placed myself in her position and realised that, because of the angles, when she looked into the mirror that was in front of her, she was confronted by a full-length portrait of her husband, hanging on the wall of the corridor outside. When the door was closed, it had been out of sight, but when she was forced to look at him, she had been overcome by guilt and shame.

Mrs Marino later admitted that she and her husband had argued over the family’s savings, most of which she had spent. She still insisted she had had nothing to do with his murder, but it was now that her second ‘tell’ came into play. Why did she repeatedly dab at her eye as if she were on the edge of tears? It was always the left eye, I noticed, as if she had some strange medical condition that allowed her to weep only on one side of her face.

After I had re-examined the photographs taken at the scene of the crime, the solution to this curious behaviour became quickly apparent. When Mrs Marino had stabbed her husband to death, a few drops of his blood had splattered into her left eye, and it was not remorse I had been witnessing but disgust. Recalling what she had done, in the manner of a modern-day Lady Macbeth she was trying to wipe away the memory of her crime.

Pünd turned the page and was about to continue reading when the door opened and James Fraser came in, carrying a tray with a cup of tea, a folded copy of The Times and about half a dozen cards and letters. He had dressed optimistically in cotton trousers, a white shirt and a V-neck sweater, as if the summer had finally arrived. It was true that no clients ever called at the office now and Pünd had agreed that a jacket and tie were unnecessary, but it still seemed to him that his assistant was taking informality a touch too far.

‘Good morning, Mr Pünd.’ Fraser was as cheerful as ever, as if he was determined not to acknowledge Pünd’s illness. ‘How are you today?’

‘I am well, thank you, James.’

‘I see you have the new pages.’

‘I think they read very well,’ Pünd said. ‘I’m hoping to complete the chapter before the end of the day.’

‘Well, I’ve brought your tea, the newspaper and the morning post.’ Fraser carefully set the tray down on Pünd’s desk. ‘A couple of bills. I’ll sort those out. A note from Detective Inspector Chubb wondering if you’d care for lunch next week.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘That’s what I thought. I’ll send your apologies. An invitation from the Police Orphans Fund asking you to be the guest speaker at their autumn conference. Again, I’ll tell them no. Oh – and you’ve had a letter from France.’ Fraser smiled, pleased with himself. ‘I can tell from the stamp.’

‘That is indeed good detective work, James.’ Pünd reached for the envelope and tore it open. ‘It is something I have been expecting,’ he added.

‘A case?’

‘A lady who perhaps requires my help.’

He took out a single sheet of paper. The letter was handwritten in green ink, the words looping and leaning into each other, fighting for space on the line.

Chateau Belmar

Sunday, 28 May

My dear Mr Pünd,

I was so surprised to see you in Harley Street that I am not sure I enquired properly after your health. I very much hope that you are in better shape than me. You may recall that I was having problems with my heart when we met all those years ago. Unfortunately, it looks as if the beastly thing is about to give up altogether. I am on borrowed time.

So I hope you are well enough to consider this request, which I am making to you with … well, all my heart. I need your help. And I only hope that you will receive this before it is too late.

You never met my first husband, Henry. After he died – at the very end of the war – I thought I would never be happy again, but then I met Elmer Waysmith and we hit it off from the very start. We have been married for six years now and he has become my best friend and confidant: someone in whom I have complete trust.

But the day before I left for London, sitting on my balcony with the Mediterranean so beautiful in front of me, 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. And then, against all the odds, I ran into you.

If you will come and stay with me at the Chateau Belmar (it is a beautiful place and we have an excellent chef), I will explain everything. I must know the truth, Mr Pünd, and there is nobody else who can help.

Sincerely,

Margaret Chalfont

Pünd read the letter, then handed it to Fraser, who did the same.

‘She sounds a bit desperate,’ Fraser observed. ‘Will you go?’

Pünd took the letter back and gazed at it for a long time, not rereading it – he had already memorised every detail, down to the last comma and the double crease in the middle of the page where it had been folded into the envelope. I must know the truth, Mr Pünd. Those were the words that most troubled him. He had spent much of his life in a search for the truth and if there was one thing he had learned, it was this.

The truth can be dangerous.

He looked out of the window. It was not raining today, but the sky was still grey, the clouds threatening. He reflected that he had spent many hours sitting in the same chair in the same room, and although it was true that he had made good progress with his book, he was beginning to feel almost a prisoner … of both his illness and his work. Dr Benson had suggested to him that sunshine and a change of scenery might do him good. Pünd had never believed in coincidence, but he had to admit that the letter was remarkably well timed.

‘What is your opinion, James?’ he asked.

‘I’d love to know what she overheard,’ Fraser replied. ‘And it would be fascinating to find out what’s going on. It’s just a shame that you’ve decided to hang up your hat. Shall I write to her that you’re too busy to make the trip?’

Pünd thought for a moment, remembering what Dr Benson had said to him. He came to a decision. ‘On the contrary, James, you can send her a telegram to say that we will arrive the day after tomorrow.’

‘You mean, you’re going to take the case?’

‘A little sunshine will do me no harm, and Lady Chalfont is a friend. How can I refuse?’

‘That’s absolutely marvellous!’ Pünd could hardly believe how quickly his assistant cheered up again. ‘I haven’t been to the South of France since I was a boy and my parents sent me on one of those French exchanges. I spent six weeks with a family in Provence. The Duponts. They were very nice people, although they were always shouting. Dinner time was like being at the storming of the Bastille.’

‘How is your French?’

‘Rusty, but it’ll soon polish up. Do you want me to get plane tickets?’

‘I do not think I am quite well enough for the demands of air travel, James. I would prefer to take the train. You can book two first-class sleeper compartments on Le Train Bleu to Nice. Can you also inform Lady Chalfont that we shall be staying at the Grand-H?tel?’

‘She’s offered to put you up at her chateau,’ Fraser reminded him.

‘It is most thoughtful of her, but I will be more comfortable in my own domain. I will need privacy and somewhere to rest. The gardens are very beautiful, I believe, and they have a swimming pool which I am sure you will enjoy.’

‘Right-ho. I’ll get on the phone and book two rooms.’ Fraser sprang to his feet, then turned round before leaving. ‘It’s not my place to say this, Mr Pünd, but I’m ever so glad you’ve decided to take this case. You really haven’t been quite yourself these last few weeks, and although I know the book is terribly important and all that, I think you’ll be much happier sniffing out a crime. That’s what you do best!’

The door closed as Fraser headed off towards his own small office next door. Atticus Pünd stayed where he was, his work forgotten, the letter in front of him. Had he made the right decision? He had no doubt of it. The thought of what lay ahead had awoken something in him. Already, for the first time in a long time, he felt alive. And there was something about the letter that alarmed him – even more than the words themselves. Lady Chalfont was in danger. He was certain of it. He was leaving as quickly as he could. He would ask Fraser to start packing straight away.

Still, he wondered if he would arrive too late.