Murder on the Clifftops Read online

  Murder on the Clifftops

  An utterly addictive cozy mystery novel

  Betty Rowlands

  Also by Betty Rowlands

  THE MELISSA CRAIG SERIES

  Murder at Hawthorn Cottage

  Murder in the Morning

  Murder on the Clifftops

  Murder at the Manor Hotel

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Murder at the Manor Hotel

  Hear More from Betty

  Also by Betty Rowlands

  A letter from Betty

  Murder at Hawthorn Cottage

  Murder in the Morning

  For Hilary, Michael and Dorothy

  One

  When the two Englishwomen arrived at the house called Les Châtaigniers, the gates were unfastened by a man in blue working clothes who informed them, with a vague gesture, that Monsieur Bonard was awaiting them on the terrace. They thanked him and, being in no hurry, paused for a few moments to admire in silence the rambling, ancient edifice of sun-baked brick, with its attendant huddle of outbuildings, before allowing their eyes to move away across the gravelled courtyard to the gardens, lush and flower-splashed like a Monet canvas, and thence onwards and upwards to the majestic backdrop of the Cévennes mountains.

  Melissa brought them back to earth by remarking that it would make an ideal setting for a glitzy murder plot and Iris responded rather tartly that she hoped Melissa wasn’t having one of her premonitions.

  ‘And don’t let Philippe hear you say that,’ she added, chewing her bottom lip.

  ‘Why not? Is he superstitious?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘Just don’t think he’d like it, that’s all.’

  It crossed Melissa’s mind that Iris had become progressively more jumpy from the moment they landed in France and throughout their journey southwards. For weeks she had been full of enthusiasm for the trip; now that it was a reality she seemed as nervous as a kitten.

  Melissa tucked a hand under her friend’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be terribly circumspect,’ she promised. ‘Come on, it must be this way.’

  Following the sound of voices, they rounded the angle of the building. About a dozen men and women of various ages were assembled on a paved terrace overlooking a swimming pool, sipping drinks and making conversation in the slightly forced manner of extras on a film set awaiting the entrance of the star. At the same moment, as if their arrival had been his cue, a tall figure moved from the far corner to centre stage.

  ‘Get the Rossano Brazzi look-alike in the Armani suit!’ Melissa murmured out of the corner of her mouth.

  Iris’s grey eyes shone and the tan in her cheeks deepened to a glowing red. ‘That’s Philippe! Handsome, isn’t he?’ She hurried forward; he came to meet her half-way, took both her hands in his and kissed her on both cheeks before leading her back to where Melissa stood waiting.

  ‘This must be your friend, Madame Craig, of whom you speak so much!’ He bowed low over Melissa’s hand. ‘I look forward to this pleasure since a long time.’

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Monsieur Bonard,’ said Melissa warmly. ‘Iris has told me so much about you and your work in the field of education.’

  He had greeted her in heavily accented English; her reward for replying in the French that she had recently been at pains to brush up was a smile of devastating charm.

  ‘I am most flattered. She has likewise told me of your fame as a writer but not’ – Bonard wagged a reproachful finger at Iris – ‘of your excellent command of our language. Permit me to compliment you on your superb accent.’

  ‘Monsieur is very kind.’

  ‘Bah! Let us not be so formal. One is among friends, no? You will call me Philippe and permit me to say “Melissa”?’

  ‘But of course.’ She was conscious of being the focus of two pairs of expressive eyes. Bonard’s, black and brilliant, were full of admiration, while Iris’s held a hint of proprietorial pride as she glanced from one friend to the other.

  ‘Splendid!’ Their host took each of them by an arm. ‘Come and meet my family of students.’ He clapped his hands to call for attention.

  ‘Mesdames et Messieurs,’ he announced. ‘I have the honour to present two very famous ladies. Madame Iris Ash’ – he inclined his head in her direction and received a self-conscious smirk in return – ‘will, as you know, be directing our art course entitled “Nature’s Designs”. Her dear friend, Madame Melissa Craig, the well-known novelist,’ – here it was Melissa’s turn to receive the gracious bow, which she acknowledged with a brisk nod – ‘is also honouring us with her presence while she carries out research for a new book.’

  He paused briefly to allow the company to respond with friendly smiles and murmurs of interest. ‘Now, we will take lunch.’ He turned to a severe-looking woman presiding over a laden buffet table. ‘Come, Juliette, will you serve my guests some of your excellent cuisine?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ The woman’s face was expressionless as, with a minimum of words, and speaking French with a strong local accent, she invited them to make their selection from the various dishes. ‘There is bread in that basket,’ she gestured towards the end of the table, ‘and you have sauces, butter, cheese, wine . . .’ There was an indefinable quality in her manner; unsmiling, yet by no means hostile, respectful but not in the least subservient, she had an air of detachment and composure that could have been a mask for almost any emotion.

  ‘Is she the housekeeper?’ asked Melissa as she and Iris helped themselves to glasses of chilled rosé and went in search of somewhere to sit.

  ‘Could be. Never seen her before. He’s the only one I recognise.’ Iris nodded towards a man in impeccably cut slacks and a monogrammed shirt, who was explaining to a fat, perspiring woman and her tall, thin husband the nature of the dishes on offer. ‘Alain Gebrec, Philippe’s indispensable assistant.’

  There was an edge to her voice which made Melissa raise an eyebrow. She glanced at the man; he was of slim build and medium height and she guessed his age to be in the mid-forties, although his fresh colouring and the lock of brown hair falling over his forehead gave him a boyish appearance.

  ‘Don’t you like him?’ she asked. ‘He looks pleasant enough.’

  Iris shrugged, pushing a morsel of charcuterie to the edge of her plate with a grimace of disgust. ‘Told the woman I don’t eat meat,’ she muttered pettishly. ‘Might as well talk to myself.’

  ‘It’s only a tiny bit, it must have got in by accident. Tell me what you’ve got against Alain Gebrec.’

  Iris made a dismissive gesture with her fork. ‘Nothing really. Does his job well enough. Philippe thinks the world of him.’

  ‘Ah!’ Melissa took a mouthful of wine and set down her glass. They had settled into the shade of a canvas umbrella on one of the numerous seats dotted round the edge of the pool. At their back was an expanse of grass with an orchard beyond where pear and apple trees drooped under the weight of ripening fruit. Iris, her irritation forgotten, glanced round with a contented sigh.

  ‘Lovely place, isn’t it?’


  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘You made a hit with Philippe, speaking the language so well. Sure way of pleasing him. Do my best, but I know my accent makes him cringe.’ Iris sighed deeply; it was evident that she regarded the approval of Philippe Bonard as something to be sought after and cherished.

  ‘Is he one of those Frenchmen who make a sacred cow of their mother-tongue?’ asked Melissa.

  Iris shook her head in mild disapproval. ‘He has a deep love of and respect for the language, and makes it his mission to encourage others to feel the same,’ she pronounced. This utterance was, for her, an unusually long and formal one, instantly recognisable as a quotation from the glossy brochure issued by the newly established Centre Cévenol d’Etudes, of which their host was the proprietor.

  Melissa’s lips twitched. ‘I suppose he believes it should never be polluted by the intrusion of foreign expressions like “le dirty week-end” for example?’ she murmured.

  Iris was not amused. ‘Don’t make fun. Means a lot to him.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t take the mickey to his face, but you’ll have to excuse me if I can’t take him quite so seriously as he takes himself.’ Or as you seem to take him, she added mentally.

  Iris sniffed and looked offended. A trace of chill in the air was relieved by the approach of a genial-looking man of fifty or so.

  ‘May I introduce myself? Jack Hammond.’ His smile was directed principally at Iris. ‘I’m enrolled on your art course, Miss Ash.’

  Iris squinted up at him, shading her eyes with a thin brown hand. ‘How d’y’do,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks. It’s such a pleasure to meet you . . . and you too, Mrs Craig,’ he added hastily.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Melissa, as Iris acknowledged the compliment with the briefest of nods.

  ‘May I take your plates? How about some dessert?’

  ‘What a nice man!’ said Melissa as he went off on his errand.

  Iris, still shading her eyes as she searched the sunlit garden, did not seem to have heard. ‘Wonder where Philippe’s got to. Supposed to be giving a little talk,’ she muttered.

  ‘He’s probably waiting till we’ve all finished scoffing,’ said Melissa. ‘Here comes our waiter,’ she added as Jack returned with bowls of chilled fruit in white wine. ‘Thank you so much. Why don’t you join us?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He found an unoccupied chair and pulled it across. Melissa observed him with approval as he settled into it. He obviously spent much time in the open air, for his face, neck and arms were deeply tanned and his light brown hair had a bleached appearance. His eyes were blue and clear, and there was an air of openness about him that appealed to her. Someone you could rely on in a crisis, she thought.

  ‘Nice idea this, inviting all the participants for a get-together before the start of the courses,’ he commented. ‘I must say, it’s a most beautiful spot. Should be an inspiration, don’t you think?’

  ‘Hope so,’ said Iris.

  ‘Quite a mixture of ages and types, too,’ he continued showing no sign of being discouraged by her laconic responses. ‘I’ve just been chatting to those two over there.’ He indicated a young man and woman who had slipped off their shoes and were sitting on the edge of the pool, dabbling their toes in the water. ‘Proper pair of young hippies they are – living in an old motor caravan on a neighbouring farm.’

  ‘Good luck to ’em,’ Iris observed without looking. ‘Takes all sorts.’

  ‘I wonder why Monsieur Bonard invited us for lunch instead of supper?’ said Melissa in an effort to compensate for Iris’s lack of interest. ‘I understand some people aren’t arriving until this evening.’

  ‘Always keeps Sunday evenings free. Likes to plan his lectures for the week.’ Iris stood up and Jack leapt from his chair and stood aside to let her pass. ‘Want a word with him. See you later.’

  They watched her as she headed towards the house, arms swinging, her thin figure held stiffly erect.

  ‘I take it she knows the old boy?’ Jack said off-handedly.

  ‘He used to live in a village near Avignon where Iris has a cottage,’ Melissa explained. ‘He ran vacation courses from his home for several years, more as a hobby than a business. Setting up on this scale was a lifetime’s ambition, so Iris tells me.’

  ‘He’s got a big investment here.’ Jack’s glance took in the extensive, well-maintained grounds and the complex of carefully renovated buildings that had once been a farm. ‘Hope he makes a go of it. Ah, there he is!’

  Philippe Bonard emerged from the house, advanced to the terrace and clapped his hands.

  ‘Mesdames et Messieurs, may I say once again what a pleasure it is to meet you all. I trust that you will find your course of study here both instructive and rewarding. I also trust that the arrangements we have made for your logement prove satisfactory, but if you have any problems, my aide’ – he gestured at Alain Gebrec, who had materialised silently at his elbow – ‘will be pleased to assist you. I speak English’ – here a hint of condescension crept into his voice – ‘for the benefit of those who are here to study subjects other than French. However, it is a rule of the centre that French is spoken at all times whenever possible. And now, Alain, you have a little excursion to propose, no?’

  Gebrec cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  ‘I suggest we make a short walk to a belvedere which affords a particularly splendid view,’ he said.

  ‘How far?’ demanded the fat woman.

  ‘Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. The way is a little steep, but we will walk slowly.’

  ‘Bit hot for hiking, isn’t it, Eric?’ she complained, turning to her husband.

  ‘You’re right, Daphne,’ he agreed and raised a hand to attract Gebrec’s attention. ‘Can’t it wait till it’s a bit cooler, Monsieur?’

  ‘It is that the light is particularly effective at this time of day,’ explained Gebrec. ‘Of course, no one is obliged to undertake the excursion, but I do most sincerely recommend that you do so. The prospect is quite spectacular.’

  ‘Come on, Daph, let’s make the effort,’ coaxed Eric. ‘Might see some wildlife. I’ll get my binoculars from the car.’

  After a short consultation, the rest of the party also made up their minds to make the effort. Gebrec led the way across the garden and through a gate in the metal perimeter fence which enclosed it.

  ‘This gate, it is locked at night for reasons of security, but students at the centre are free to pass through into the forest during the daytime,’ he informed them. ‘Please, however, do not attempt the path to the belvedere without a guide, in case of accident.’

  He set off at a gentle pace and everyone followed in a straggling line. After a few minutes of easy walking along a grassy track among the trees, he clambered through a gap in a stone wall and they found themselves scrambling up a steep, uneven pathway that appeared to have been only recently cut through the undergrowth.

  Conversation was sporadic, limited mainly to generalities. This was not entirely due to the heat; most people were still trying to absorb names and remember who was following which course of study. The exceptions were two middle-aged Englishwomen and a handsome young German, all of whom, it emerged, had already spent a week at the centre improving their French. These three walked a little apart from the others.

  Melissa, observing them with the eye of a novelist, noted how Rose Kettle kept a shade closer to Dieter Erdle than was absolutely necessary, responding with coy smiles and fluttering eyelashes every time he spoke to her; how she seemed to make a point of stumbling now and then, and how ready he was with a steadying hand beneath her arm. Dora Lavender strode beside them, wielding a golfing umbrella like a walking stick, giving monosyllabic responses when addressed, but otherwise keeping silent and unsmiling, her eyes watchful.

  ‘Do I detect an atmosphere?’ whispered Iris in Melissa’s ear.

  ‘A distinct whiff of disapproval, I’d say,’ M
elissa whispered back.

  ‘Expect he’s after her money.’

  ‘What makes you think she’s got any?’

  ‘Got to be some attraction.’

  ‘Iris, you’re being catty!’

  The path climbed rapidly, densely shaded at first by mature chestnut trees. Alain Gebrec, delicately picking his way over the rough ground, turned occasionally to exchange a word with those nearest to him. Presently, they came to a wider track leading down the hill to their right.

  ‘Why didn’t we come that way?’ demanded Daphne. ‘It looks much easier.’

  ‘It is also much longer,’ Gebrec explained. ‘It joins the road nearly a kilometre from the house. We can take a short rest, if you wish.’

  ‘Oh, might as well get it over with,’ she grumbled, but Eric had adjusted his binoculars to track a squirrel scurrying along a branch, and the rest of the party craned their necks and pointed as the little creature appeared and disappeared among the foliage.

  Melissa glanced back the way they had come. The main part of the house was hidden, but the central portion, a circular tower with a roof shaped like the lid of a honey-pot, was visible above the treetops.

  ‘There must be a superb view from those top windows,’ she said enviously to Iris, who was standing next to her. ‘If I lived here, I’d never get any work done for gawping out of them.’

  ‘Yes, it’s pretty spectacular,’ Iris agreed. ‘Windows all round.’

  ‘You’ve been up there?’

  Iris coloured. ‘Philippe showed me round when he was negotiating to buy the place. Wanted my opinion,’ she added defensively, as if to forestall possible disapproval.