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SIX

A tticus Pünd woke up late the following morning and it took him a moment to remember where he was. He was lying in bed in a large room with a window opening onto a private balcony and views of the hotel grounds. The carpet, pink and patterned, might not be to his taste and the wallpaper was certainly far too busy, but the bed was unquestionably comfortable, piled up with more pillows than he could possibly need. Lying there, he thought about the journey he had just made. It had exercised him more than he would have believed.

It had all begun well. The sea had been calm on the crossing to Calais and the famous Blue Train had been waiting for him at the platform, swathed in a cloud of white steam, the famous LX Wagons-Lits assembled one after another, a wall of sapphire blue scored by a single gold line. Smartly uniformed porters carried the luggage and more of them stood at the doors, waiting to greet the passengers on what was intended to be not just a journey but the experience of a lifetime.

Pünd had been astonished by the almost absurd luxury of the enterprise. It was as if the designers had taken the world’s greatest restaurants, cocktail bars, hotels, theatres and gentlemen’s clubs and stretched them until they were impossibly long and narrow but still afforded every comfort to those lucky enough to be on board. His oak-panelled sleeping compartment – there were only ten in each carriage – was a perfect home in miniature. The sofa folded into a comfortable bed. There was a table, an upholstered chair, even a small sink in the corner. James Fraser had been beside himself with excitement.

‘They serve a five-course meal in the dining car,’ he said. ‘The food is said to be sensational. Would you like me to reserve a table?’

‘No, thank you, James.’ Pünd was already beginning to have his doubts about the journey. ‘I think I shall retire early to my bed, once we have left Paris. Perhaps, after all, it would have been simpler to have taken the plane.’

It was true. There were five hundred and sixty miles between Calais and Nice, and twelve hours later, Pünd was beginning to feel the strain of the journey. All the comfort in the world could not diminish the rattling of the wheels, the noise of the engine, the smell of cinders and steam, the sense of captivity. His head began to ache and the pills given to him by Dr Benson seemed unable to combat the seemingly deliberate attacks on what was left of his health. Much to his assistant’s dismay, he ate only a few slices of dry toast and drank nothing more than tea. Soon, he was forced to travel with the blinds drawn, not even enjoying the view, and by the time they arrived at their destination, he was sure that the entire trip had been a terrible mistake.

This was the reason he had not visited Lady Chalfont on the Friday, when he had arrived. He had not even felt capable of telephoning her. He was sure she would forgive this brief delay. He would see her over the weekend.

There was no question that he was already feeling much better. He got out of bed and pulled open the shutters, allowing the sunshine and the Mediterranean air to flood into the room. He stood there for a few minutes, feeling his strength returning. All in all, he decided, an airplane would have been just as exhausting but in a different way. The important thing was that he had arrived.

An hour later, dressed in a lightweight summer suit, he joined James Fraser at the breakfast table in the vast dining room with its soaring columns and windows opening onto the terrace that ran along the back of the hotel. There must have been at least seventy people eating breakfast, spread over the various tables, and yet apart from the occasional clatter of a knife or fork against a plate, the room was almost religiously quiet.

James was less formally dressed in a polo shirt and V-neck pullover. He stood up as Pünd took his place, then handed him a menu.

‘How are you feeling today?’ he asked. ‘I have to say, you were looking a bit done in when we got the taxi at the station.’

‘It was a long journey,’ Pünd agreed.

‘Well, this place is marvellous. It’s almost lunchtime, but they’re still serving breakfast. Which one are you going to have?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Breakfast or lunch?’

‘Breakfast, I think.’

‘Right.’ James studied the menu. ‘Would you like some eggs? I can’t remember if brouillés is scrambled or boiled.’

‘No, no, James. I think a croissant and a coffee will be enough for me.’

‘You don’t mind if I dig in, do you?’

‘Not at all. You can have whatever you wish.’

Ten minutes later, Pünd was enjoying his croissant, a glass of orange juice and un grand crème , while his assistant had gone for boiled eggs, ham, cheese, a length of baguette and a silver jug filled with hot chocolate.

‘So when are we off to the Chateau Belmar?’ James asked.

‘I will telephone Lady Chalfont as soon as we have finished breakfast,’ Pünd replied. ‘You must arrange a taxi for us.’

‘Maybe she’ll send a car.’

‘That is indeed a possibility.’

They were interrupted by the approach of a waiter, who looked not just apologetic but indignant, as if something unprecedented had occurred. He was being followed by a man in his thirties or forties: it was hard to be sure. The visitor was dressed in a dark, crumpled suit that did not fit him well. The collar of his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie was loose. His choice of wardrobe would in itself have been inappropriate in the dining room of a luxury hotel, but it was not the reason why the guests greeted him with brief looks of surprise and dismay as he passed their tables. One of his eyes was covered with a black patch and the entire side of his face was a mass of scar tissue. He was clasping his right arm with his left hand as if he was in constant pain. Or perhaps the entire limb was a prosthetic. He might once have been handsome. It was very hard to see past his disfigurement.

The waiter stopped at Pünd’s table. ‘I apologise for the interruption, monsieur—’ he began.

But the new arrival did not wait for him to continue. He stepped forward. ‘Herr Pünd?’ he said.

Pünd nodded.

The man turned to the waiter. ‘You may leave us.’

The waiter managed to reach another level of indignation but didn’t argue. He bowed briefly and walked away.

‘My name is Frédéric Voltaire,’ the man introduced himself. ‘I am with the S?reté. Do you mind if I join you?’ Without waiting for an answer, he drew up an extra seat and took his place at the table.

‘You have travelled down from Paris?’ Pünd asked.

‘I took the overnight train.’ Voltaire spoke excellent English, although with the formality and accent of a student at the Sorbonne.

‘For what purpose?’

By way of an answer, Voltaire reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a piece of paper and laid it on the table. It was a telegram. Pünd glanced at the words and recognised the message he had sent to Lady Chalfont.

‘Where is Lady Chalfont?’ Pünd asked, although he already feared the answer.

‘Lady Chalfont is dead.’ Voltaire made no attempt to soften the blow.

‘What? Are you saying she’s been killed?’ James Fraser stared at the man from the S?reté.

Voltaire turned, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Do you think I would have come all the way from Paris if she had been run over by a bus?’

‘What were the circumstances of her death?’ Pünd asked.

‘She was having tea yesterday afternoon in the gazebo which stands in the garden of her chateau here in Cap Ferrat. There were two members of her family with her: her son, Jeffrey Chalfont, and her son-in-law, Harry Lyttleton. She became ill and died very suddenly.’

‘You are aware, Monsieur Voltaire, that Lady Chalfont was seriously unwell. She had a heart condition. According to her doctor, she might have been brought down at any time.’

‘The doctor told you this?’

‘He did. I spoke to him shortly after he had examined her.’

‘This was when you met Lady Chalfont?’

Pünd considered. There was something quietly aggressive about the way the man from the S?reté was interrogating him, a sense of something unsaid. It was almost as if he suspected Pünd might be involved in the way Lady Chalfont had died. ‘I was at the clinic for a routine examination,’ he explained. ‘Lady Chalfont and I had a brief conversation in the waiting room. She was with her daughter, Judith Lyttleton.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She wanted to consult with me on a matter of urgency and shortly afterwards she sent me a letter asking me to come to France. I will of course make it available to you, as I am sure you will wish to see it, Monsieur Voltaire, but once again it impressed upon me the urgency of my attendance.’

‘She was afraid?’

‘She had overheard a conversation that almost certainly related to her husband, Elmer Waysmith. It had clearly upset her, but, as you will see, she did not describe exactly what was said. Nor did she state at any time that she felt herself to be in danger. So I would be interested to know what reason you have to believe that there may be suspicious circumstances surrounding her death.’

‘You are the main reason,’ Voltaire replied. ‘A very wealthy member of the British aristocracy summons a world-famous detective to her house. Almost immediately, she dies. You do not see a connection?’

‘Many clients have called me to their houses. Not all of them have been murdered.’

‘There is something else. Just before she died, Lady Chalfont remarked that her tea had a strange taste. She had drunk about half the cup when she complained of a burning sensation in her throat. She became short of breath. Then she died.’ Voltaire paused. ‘This does not sound like a heart attack to me, Herr Pünd.’

‘I am inclined to agree, Monsieur Voltaire. I will ask my assistant to retrieve the letter from my room. I assume you are returning to the Chateau Belmar?’

‘That is my intention.’

‘Then perhaps you will allow me to accompany you. Lady Chalfont was not a client – at least, not formally. But we had met before and I would say we were friends. As you can see from the telegram, I was intending to meet her yesterday, but I was not well enough to make the journey to the chateau. If it turns out that you are correct and that she was indeed the victim of foul play, I will not be able to forgive myself. I have let her down.’

‘You were in no shape to go anywhere,’ James muttered from the other side of the table.

‘Even so, I feel a duty towards her and would be happy to help you with this investigation.’

Frédéric Voltaire was sitting very straight in his chair and the look on his face suggested that this was the last thing he wanted. However, finally he nodded. ‘I will be honest, Herr Pünd. I would prefer to work alone. I do not think I need your assistance and I find it frankly offensive that you should suggest otherwise. However, the matter has been taken out of my hands.

‘When I reported to my superiors that you were here in Cap Ferrat and that Lady Chalfont had communicated with you, I was given the direct order to involve you in the case. The Commissaire wishes this matter to be dealt with as quickly as possible. Do not think for a minute that this has anything to do with Lady Chalfont or her family – or, for that matter, yourself. The C?te d’Azur is becoming increasingly important to the economy of the whole country. We need tourists, and not just that. Wealthy tourists. We already have enough problems with Corsican drug gangs, as well as corruption and vice. If people with wealth and influence think they cannot come here without being murdered in their own homes, it could place the entire area in jeopardy.

‘In short, my hands are tied. The Commissaire sends his compliments and formally asks for your help in this matter. If you have eaten your breakfast, I have a car outside. Despite my own considerations, you will be given complete freedom to pursue the investigation as you see fit.’

‘You are very direct, Monsieur Voltaire.’

‘Would you wish me to be otherwise, Herr Pünd?’

Pünd examined the other man curiously, wondering about his injuries, the manner in which the detective had approached them, and what it was that made him so hostile. But this was far from the right time to start asking questions.

‘I’ll get the letter,’ Fraser said.

‘Thank you, James.’ Pünd smiled at the Frenchman. ‘I shall finish my coffee and then we shall go.’