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FIVE

A t four o’clock that afternoon, Margaret Chalfont went downstairs for tea in the garden. It was her favourite time of the day. Some of the heat would have gone out of the sun, but for the past six hours the chateau and its grounds had been bathed in its warmth and the air would be thick with the smell of roses, lavender and pine.

The gazebo was tucked away from the main house, on the edge of an ornamental lake. It was circular, with eight Corinthian pillars holding up a limestone cupola faced with marble and decorated with semi-precious stones that took the form of a garland of flowers, continuing all the way round. Lady Chalfont loved it here. There was a small island in the middle of the lake and she had left instructions that she would like to be buried here if she died in France. It was strange, but as she made her way, fully dressed, along the corridor that led to the stairs, she had a premonition that the end might be coming very soon. It wasn’t that she felt ill. In fact, the week in Cap Ferrat had done her a power of good, just as Elmer had said. But she was having bad dreams. She had not yet heard from Atticus Pünd, although she was sure he must have arrived. She wished she had seen him today and wondered when he would come.

As she reached the staircase, she heard the sound of typing coming from her husband’s study. She thought of knocking on the door and asking if he might not change his mind and join her for tea, but quickly decided against it. She knew he was trying to finish the catalogue for his next exhibition. He would hate to be disturbed.

Instead, she followed the stairs down to the grand salon , a space that stretched from the hall and main entrance all the way to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened onto the garden. A line of pillars separated the house from the grounds: they supported the balcony in front of her bedroom where she sat for much of the day.

Lady Chalfont felt almost lost as she crossed the room, making her way outside. It wasn’t just its size; it was also filled with so many gorgeous things – antique tables and sofas, a desk, a grand piano, a gaming table with a chessboard said to have belonged to Victor Hugo (although Elmer insisted it had been crafted at least fifty years too late), pedestals and pictures. Much of this had been bought by the 5th Earl Chalfont, her late husband’s father, but Henry and then Elmer had also added to the collection to the extent that she sometimes felt as if she was living in a museum or a very high-class bric-a-brac market.

She was about halfway across when Béatrice appeared as if out of nowhere. The housekeeper had an extraordinary ability to hear any movement in the house and to make herself available like a genie out of the lamp.

‘Good afternoon, madame. You take tea?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Béatrice. I’m joining Harry and my daughter at the gazebo.’

‘You would like me to walk with you?’

‘No. I can manage on my own, thank you. Will you bring out the tea?’

‘I make it now.’ Béatrice stopped to tidy the magazines on an ornamental table, then walked back towards the kitchen.

Lady Chalfont continued out into the garden, following the path that led past the fountain and then on to the lake and the gazebo. Harry was already waiting for her, but there was no sign of Judith. Instead, he had been joined by Jeffrey. Cedric was also visible in the distance, prowling around the herb garden. Margaret worried about her grandson sometimes. He spent too much time on his own and he wasn’t like any other children she had ever met. What was he doing now, for example? Cedric had recently developed an unhealthy interest in poisons. Only the week before he had brought a clump of Atropa belladonna to the dining-room table. Deadly nightshade. Béatrice had removed both the plant and the boy from the room, only allowing Cedric to return after he had thoroughly washed his hands.

The two men stood up as she approached. Jeffrey greeted her with an embrace and a kiss on both cheeks.

‘Hello, Mama. How have you been today?’ he enquired.

‘Much the same as usual, Jeffrey dear.’ She accepted the kisses with a certain stoicism. Since her illness had been diagnosed, she had come to dislike close contact such as this. ‘Where’s Judith?’ she asked.

‘You know what she’s like,’ Harry replied. ‘It’s these wretched lines in the Peruvian desert. She won’t leave them alone. She sent her apologies and I came instead.’

A table had been laid in the centre of the gazebo with china cups and plates and an ornamental stand, three tiers high, laden with sandwiches and madeleines. ‘Is Cedric going to join us?’ Lady Chalfont asked as she took her place.

‘I have no idea, Mama.’ Jeffrey sat next to her. ‘That boy lives in a world of his own.’

‘The same could be said about you,’ Lady Chalfont remarked caustically. ‘Couldn’t Lola look after him?’

‘She’s learning her lines.’

‘Do you think she’s going to get this part in the play?’

‘It’s a musical – and she hasn’t been cast yet. She’s hoping to meet the producers soon, and meanwhile she’s working on her Italian accent. And singing! She won’t stop singing. Right now, it’s like living with Maria What’s-her-name. You know. That opera woman.’

‘Callas.’ Jeffrey’s father had loved classical music and opera. Lady Chalfont often wondered how their only son could have grown up so uninterested.

‘I’m starving,’ Harry said, delicately pinching a sandwich between his forefinger and thumb. He hadn’t thought to offer Lady Chalfont one, but he knew she would have no appetite. ‘Where’s Béatrice with the tea?’ he asked.

At that moment, Béatrice was pouring milk into a porcelain jug, which she then placed on a tray. She went over to the sideboard where she had set out two teapots: one with Fortnum & Mason’s Royal Blend, the other with lemon and ginger, which Lady Chalfont preferred. As she drew nearer, she stopped, puzzled.

She was quite sure that she had left the lids on both teapots. It was her usual practice. She made the tea and then she left it to brew for exactly three minutes, the way Lady Chalfont liked it. But although the larger teapot with the Royal Blend was still closed, the lid of Lady Chalfont’s pot was lying on the counter. Béatrice was certain she had replaced it after she had poured in the boiling water. Could someone have come into the kitchen while she had been in the grand salon ? But why would anyone want to touch the tea things?

Béatrice dismissed the thought. She replaced the lid, then loaded the pots onto a tray along with the jug of milk, a dish with some neatly arranged lemon slices and a bowl of sugar.

Looking around her and checking that everything was as it should be, Béatrice carried the tea out into the garden.

*

Twenty minutes later, a grey Citro?n Traction Avant pulled up in front of the house. There was a man sitting in the front, in the passenger seat. He was in his fifties, bald and unsmiling, dressed in a dark suit and black tie – and this, along with the colour of the car, gave him something of the appearance of an undertaker. His name was Jean Lambert and he was a solicitor – or an avocat , as it is called in France. He worked for both Lady Chalfont and her husband and had also advised Harry Lyttleton on many occasions as he had continued in his struggles to build his hotel.

Monsieur Lambert could not drive. It was his secretary who was behind the wheel, a young, quite plain woman with her hair tightly drawn in a bun, wearing a cropped jacket and a smart dress. Alice Carling had an English father and a French mother, both in their sixties. Her parents had moved into a small house in a village close to Saint-Paul-de-Vence after they married and had been there ever since. Tom Carling, a former mechanic who had met his wife in a French field hospital, had never learned a word of French, but his daughter was bilingual. Monsieur Lambert’s office was inside the town and she had been with him for four years.

Monsieur Lambert was the first out of the car, picking up his briefcase, which had been resting on the back seat. Now that he was on his feet, it could be seen that he was several inches shorter than his assistant. They made an odd couple as they made their way to the front door without speaking.

Alice rang the bell, then stepped aside so that Monsieur Lambert could introduce them. It took a long while for anyone to arrive, but just as she was about to ring again, the door opened and Béatrice stood in front of them, a look of puzzlement on her face. It was possible that she did not remember who Monsieur Lambert was – she had only met him a couple of times. Either that or she knew who he was but had no idea why he was here.

‘Good afternoon,’ Lambert said, in French. ‘I have an appointment with Lady Chalfont.’ He gestured with his watch as if it was proof of both his punctuality and his permission to enter. ‘She asked me to call on her at half past four.’

‘Lady Chalfont is having tea, monsieur.’

‘Excellent. Then we will be happy to join her.’

‘You are …?’

‘We have met before. I am Ma?tre Lambert. My assistant, Mademoiselle Carling. We have spoken with Lady Chalfont in this house many times and she has invited us today to discuss some important business.’

Béatrice seemed unsure what to do but came to a decision. ‘You can follow me, monsieur,’ she said. ‘I will take you through to the garden.’

Lambert and his secretary exchanged glances and entered the house, the solicitor walking ahead. They went through the grand salon and out the other side, and it was only as they passed underneath the balcony that they heard shouting and saw a man in a blazer and cravat running towards them, his long fair hair flying in disarray. As he drew nearer, they recognised Harry Lyttleton. His cheeks were flushed red, but it was the look of terror on his face that struck them most. His eyes were wide and staring, as if he was being pursued by something terrible. Which, in a way, he was.

‘You have to call a doctor. And the police!’ His voice was high-pitched.

‘What has happened?’

‘Lady Chalfont …! It’s ghastly! I can’t believe it. It happened in front of my eyes.’

‘Is she unwell?’

‘No. No.’ Harry had reached them as if he had just made it to the wicket with the cricket ball inches behind him, closing on the stumps. He doubled over, his palms resting on his thighs, gasping for breath. It took him a few moments to recover. ‘She’s not ill,’ he wailed. ‘She’s dead!’