Murder on the Clifftops Page 3

  ‘Think so. Here to do art,’ said Iris.

  ‘Ah, yes! You’re our tutor, aren’t you?’ Chrissie fixed light brown eyes on Iris. She was a wan-faced, earnest-looking girl clad in a shapeless, black-washed-to-grey cotton dress a size too large for her. ‘I’m so looking forward to having your guidance!’ She spoke in a low-pitched vibrato that Melissa suspected had been carefully cultivated. ‘There’s so much here to inspire one, don’t you think?’

  ‘Hm, yes, suppose so.’ Iris fidgeted her feet in her canvas shoes and looked away.

  ‘Thought so,’ said Jack, returning from his fact-finding errand. ‘They’re both pretty certain it’s a young chap from Munich who was here last week to study French. They recognised him by his gingery hair and the brightly patterned shirt he was wearing. It seems his hobby was pot-holing and he was staying on for a few days to poke around in grottoes.’

  ‘We keep using the past tense, but are we quite sure he’s dead?’ said Mervyn. ‘They should be getting medical help.’

  ‘He might not have fallen from the top. He could be just stunned,’ suggested Sue.

  For a moment, the atmosphere lightened. Perhaps there was hope after all.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Melissa. ‘I looked at him through the binoculars, and . . .’ She put a hand to her mouth, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of what she had eaten for lunch. ‘The back of his head was bashed in, as if he’d hit it on a projecting piece of rock or something when he fell.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Eric. ‘I saw it too. It was gruesome.’

  As if the shock of what he had seen had only just reached him, he covered his face with his hands. Daphne put a plump arm round him and he leaned against her while everyone murmured in sympathy.

  ‘Here we are!’ Dora emerged from the house carrying a large tea-pot. ‘Will one of you gentlemen kindly fetch the tray?’ It was a command, not a request; several volunteers leapt to their feet. ‘I had to do it myself, that’s why it took so long,’ she explained. ‘Juliette is in a terrible state and poor Fernand is getting a fine old telling-off.’

  ‘What about?’ asked Eric.

  ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t understand very well.’ Dora made the admission with evident reluctance. ‘They both seemed very agitated and they were speaking so fast, and using a lot of patois,’ she explained defensively. ‘But I did catch some references to the Camisards.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Weren’t they crusaders or something?’ Dora looked round for enlightenment.

  ‘My friend knows,’ said Iris. ‘She’s researching a novel about them.’

  All eyes turned on Melissa. Chrissie’s face lit up with admiration.

  ‘Of course, you’re a writer!’ she breathed. ‘I think that’s thrilling! I do feel’ – at this point she invited everyone with a sweep of her glowing eyes to share her sentiments – ‘that writers have a great deal in common with artists. Don’t you agree, Iris? I mean, like us, they go straight to the core of the meaning of life!’

  ‘Melissa goes to the core of the meaning of death!’ said Iris drily. ‘She writes crime novels.’

  ‘Oh!’ The monosyllable was heavily charged with disappointment and disdain.

  ‘Tell us about the Camisards,’ said Jack.

  ‘They were victims of religious persecution during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries,’ Melissa explained. ‘This has always been a strongly Protestant region and for years there was a kind of guerilla warfare between them and the Catholics, who were of course backed up by the King’s troops. It got pretty nasty at times.’

  ‘But what would that have to do with Klein’s death?’ asked Daphne.

  ‘Probably nothing, but Fernand seems to have a bit of a fixation about them.’ Melissa related her encounter on the way to the belvedere. ‘This area is riddled with grottoes that made splendid hideouts – incidentally, they were used by the Maquis as well, during the Occupation. There are some famous ones at Trabuc, but there could be any number of others, less well known or even undiscovered.’

  ‘And that’s what Klein was interested in. Maybe he’d been asking Fernand about them . . .’

  ‘. . . and he’d told him where to look . . .’

  ‘. . . and now he’s getting it in the neck from Juliette . . .’

  ‘. . . blaming him for sending Klein to his death . . .’

  ‘. . . must be overcome by remorse . . .’

  ‘. . . absolutely ghastly . . .’

  Speculative remarks bounced around like ping-pong balls amid the rattle of cups and saucers as Dora poured the tea.

  ‘Rose would like hers weak with no sugar.’ Dieter Erdle approached with an ingratiating smile, which was not returned.

  ‘I’m well aware of how Rose likes her tea, thank you!’ Ignoring the outstretched hand, Dora swept past him with a full cup and marched towards the chaise-longue where Rose was still reclining, watching the others with a vague smile and apparently quite recovered.

  Everyone except Erdle looked uncomfortable at this open declaration of hostilities, but he merely shrugged, threw a mocking grimace at Dora’s back and strolled away in the opposite direction.

  ‘I do not drink tea. I shall take a swim,’ he announced and vanished into the changing room.

  At this point Philippe Bonard reappeared and everyone waited expectantly as he approached. His face was pale and his manner agitated.

  ‘What news?’ asked Jack.

  Bonard spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘It is terrible, terrible! The matter is in the hands of the Sécurité Civile, who are making arrangements to reach the unfortunate victim. We cannot be certain, but we fear it is poor young Wolfgang Klein.’

  ‘He was here on a French course last week, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, that is so. He has been coming to me for tuition for several years – he was delighted when I moved here and he could combine his studies with his passion for speleology. What a tragedy!’

  Bonard seemed about to break down, but controlled himself. Iris went to his side and put a hand on his arm.

  ‘However will they get to him – Klein, I mean?’ asked Janey. ‘That ledge is an awfully long way down and the river’s too shallow for a boat.’

  The question was immediately answered by the clattering roar of a helicopter. Flying low, it passed overhead and disappeared behind the house.

  Janey gave a squeal of excitement. ‘How thrilling! Let’s go and watch!’

  Iris gave her a sharp look. ‘Not a sideshow. Someone’s been killed,’ she reproved.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Bonard.

  Janey looked abashed, but it was evident from the restless movements and craning necks that several others shared her curiosity.

  ‘The path to the belvedere has been closed,’ said Bonard. ‘It is to be kept clear for use by the rescue teams.’

  ‘Perhaps from up there?’ suggested Mervyn, glancing up at the central tower.

  ‘Please!’ begged Janey. One or two people moved forward expectantly.

  Bonard, apparently torn between a sense of propriety and a wish to please his paying clients, hesitated and then gave a resigned shrug. ‘Oh, very well. This way.’

  ‘Not you too!’ said Iris severely as Melissa made a move to follow.

  ‘I think I should . . . I might want to use a helicopter rescue some time.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ll wait here.’ Her features set in stony disapproval, Iris flopped on to a chair.

  There was a loud splash as Erdle took to the water. Glancing over her shoulder, Melissa saw Rose being led by her friend towards their car. ‘I think that round went to Dora,’ she murmured to herself as she followed the others into the house.

  Three

  Even to accommodate Philippe Bonard, to whose interests, it appeared to Melissa, she was excessively devoted, Iris would not have accepted his invitation to tutor a week’s art course if she had not been assured of a vegetarian diet and a room with enoug
h floor space to practise her yoga. Fortunately, the Auberge de la Fontaine in the village of Roziac, a short distance from Les Châtaigniers, was able to meet all her requirements.

  Iris and Melissa were not the only members of the party to be staying there. When they walked into the little salon with their evening apéritif, they found Dora Lavender sitting alone in a corner, reading Madame Figaro and sipping a glass of muscat.

  ‘Hullo, Mrs Lavender,’ said Melissa. ‘May we join you?’

  ‘Of course. Do sit down, and please, call me Dora.’ She put the magazine aside with a smile of welcome. She had changed from the plain skirt and blouse she had worn earlier into a draped print dress that softened the rigid lines of her figure. Her features, too, had relaxed; caught unawares, she had a forlorn, almost wistful expression. ‘Do you know if they’ve recovered that poor young man’s body yet?’ she enquired.

  ‘I believe so,’ said Melissa, ‘but we couldn’t really see what was going on because of the trees.’

  ‘Hard luck!’ jeered Iris.

  ‘I suppose you were taking a professional interest,’ continued Dora. ‘Do you think there’ll be a police investigation?’ Her expression became more animated, as if talk of the tragedy provided a welcome diversion from her own thoughts.

  ‘I imagine so. They’ll want to know how he came to fall. The path is completely cordoned off and there are people in uniform all over the place.’ Melissa had been hoping for an opportunity to observe the proceedings on the ground, but had been sternly repelled by a portly gendarme.

  ‘Your friend got over her wobbly?’ asked Iris. The twitch of her mouth and the gleam in her eye made it plain that she regarded the whole episode of Rose Kettle’s hysterics as something not to be taken too seriously, but Dora’s expression darkened.

  ‘Oh, she’s all right, I suppose, but she’s sulking. I’m really very concerned about her. You see . . .’ She broke off, looking from one to the other and then down at her glass. The steel-blue eyes that had challenged Dieter Erdle now looked troubled and uncertain. Melissa felt she could read her thoughts. Should I confide in these two? she seemed to be asking herself. Would they be bored, or embarrassed – or think me disloyal?

  Iris, with her usual bluntness, came straight to the point.

  ‘Worried about that German chap, aren’t you? Think he’s a fortune-hunter?’

  ‘That’s exactly it,’ said Dora eagerly, evidently grateful for the lead. ‘Rose is so impressionable. Usually she listens to my advice, but this time she seems quite infatuated. He hangs around all the time, fawning over her and paying her silly compliments, and she laps it up – won’t hear a word against him. And we’re all here for another week . . .’ She fiddled with the stem of her glass, her strong features puckered in anxiety.

  ‘You’ve been friends for a long time, I take it,’ said Melissa.

  ‘We were at school together. It’s quite a bizarre story – you might use it in a plot for one of your novels.’ Dora gave a wry smile. ‘She used to get teased a lot because she was so small and skinny, and I looked after her. After leaving school we corresponded for some years, then we both got married; Rose went to live abroad and Charles and I . . . anyway, I lost touch with her.’

  There was a pause. Dora took several slow sips from her glass, but she seemed to be swallowing something else besides the wine and when she spoke again her voice was a shade unsteady.

  ‘The next time we met was in a morgue, waiting to identify the bodies of our husbands who’d been killed in the same plane crash. Macabre, wasn’t it?’ Again, she forced a half smile.

  ‘How ghastly for you!’ exclaimed Melissa.

  Dora blinked hard. ‘It was, rather.’

  Iris, ever practical, put out a hand for her empty glass. ‘Like a refill?’ she offered. ‘Or maybe something stronger?’

  ‘No, thank you. I must go up to Rose in a minute and try to persuade her to come down for dinner.’

  ‘That must have been a devastating experience.’ Melissa’s imagination was already conjuring up images and sensations of grief, shock, confusion and horror. ‘However did you cope?’

  ‘One of us had to.’ A shrug and a resigned sigh told it all. ‘Rose was completely beside herself, so I took charge of everything for both of us.’

  ‘Must have seemed like old times,’ commented Iris.

  Melissa winced, afraid that her friend’s pragmatism might not go down well in the circumstances, but Dora showed no sign of having taken offence.

  ‘You could say that. And that’s more or less how it’s been ever since. Her husband left her with more money than she knew what to do with and she hadn’t – still hasn’t – a clue about how to manage it. Charles left me with a load of debts I couldn’t pay.’ Dora blinked again, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. Melissa had the feeling that to dry them with a handkerchief, openly admitting to tears, would have been a gesture of weakness that she was not prepared to make. ‘Rose helped me out with a loan, I agreed to handle her affairs – I work in the investment department of a bank – and after a while I sold my flat and moved in with her. We’ve kept one another company ever since.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Iris, studying her glass with an abstracted expression.

  ‘I can understand your concern over Dieter Erdle,’ said Melissa.

  Dora stood up. ‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll get over it once we’re away from here.’ She had recovered her composure and there was an underlying firmness in her voice, as if she was stating a fact rather than expressing a hope. ‘A few good rounds of golf will get him out of her system. We’re spending our final week in Antibes; we’ve got friends who belong to a club there. By the way,’ she dropped her voice, ‘you won’t let her know I’ve told you all this?’

  Iris was swift to respond. ‘Not a word!’ she promised and Melissa nodded agreement.

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for listening.’

  As she left, Dora almost collided with the proprietor, clad in chef’s hat and apron. He was a small, bird-like man of enormous energy who ran the auberge with the aid of his wife and a seemingly endless supply of pretty daughters.

  ‘I come to apologise for the lateness of the evening meal,’ he said, clasping his hands and bobbing his head in all directions like a starling pecking at a lawn. ‘It is the excitement, you know. The women talk of nothing else . . . and there are rumours.’

  ‘What rumours, Monsieur Gauthier?’ asked Iris.

  He bent forward, his eyes gleaming as if he had spotted an extra choice worm. ‘That the death of that poor young man was not an accident!’

  The Englishwomen stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘You mean someone pushed him?’ said Melissa. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘It is all over the village that the victim was in the Bar des Sports a few evenings ago, asking questions about a grotto near here. No one knew anything about it, or at least they pretended not to. People round here don’t talk much about such things to strangers. According to Madame Pavy at the boulangerie, that crazy Fernand Morlay was in there and got very angry . . . threatened him . . . warned him not to go poking his nose in what did not concern him. So now they are suggesting . . .’

  ‘That Fernand killed him? But that’s ridiculous!’ declared Melissa. ‘I know the man has these strange fantasies about the Camisards, but surely . . .’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t the Camisards he was thinking about the other evening, it was the Gestapo! When he is not pretending to be one of Roland’s men, he is looking over his shoulder for German spies. He is a little . . .’ Monsieur Gauthier tapped his forehead, then looked at his watch and threw up his hands. ‘Oh, mon Dieu! I must see what those women are doing!’ Muttering to himself, he scurried out.

  ‘Who was Roland?’ asked Iris.

  ‘One of the leaders of the Camisards,’ replied Melissa. ‘The King sent a man called Villars to offer an amnesty, but Roland insisted it was a trap. A few stood by him and fought on, but most of the people were so weary of the
constant killing that they gave in.’

  ‘You reckon Fernand was confusing Villars with the Gestapo?’

  Melissa frowned, remembering the wild look in the man’s eyes when she mentioned the Camisards. ‘I suppose it’s possible. Maybe he was in the Resistance, as someone suggested this afternoon. Klein was a German; he might have seen him as the enemy – but surely he wouldn’t . . .’

  ‘Sounds completely batty to me.’ Iris turned a stern eye on Melissa. ‘You keep away from him. No more encounters in the woods!’ she commanded.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Through the open doorway Melissa saw Monsieur Gauthier emerge from the kitchen, immaculate in white jacket and black trousers. He beamed, bowed and gestured towards the dining-room. ‘Come on, I think dinner’s ready at last.’

  The dining-room was furnished in rustic style with dark, heavy furniture and green curtains patterned with overblown roses that made Iris, whose textile designs enjoyed an international reputation, shudder with distaste. But there were fresh flowers on every table and the food was excellent. Even Iris, who tended to be suspicious of everything she had not prepared herself, could find no fault with it.

  Rose and Dora appeared to have made their peace for the time being, but there was a steadiness in Rose’s manner and a lift to her slightly faded but still pretty ash-blonde head that hinted at future battles.

  Monsieur Gauthier had given his four English guests a table by the window with a magnificent view of the mountains, their harsh outlines mellowed by the evening light.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful!’ sighed Rose. She turned to Melissa. ‘Dora tells me you’re setting a novel in these parts. Is it a romance?’

  ‘No, a thriller – a sort of historical detective story. I’m planning to do some background research while Iris is running her art course.’

  ‘How exciting! Isn’t it, Dora?’ Rose turned to her friend with an eager expression on her mobile face. In the request for endorsement of that simple remark she revealed a glimpse of the vulnerable child turning to the stronger companion for support.

  ‘Very exciting,’ agreed Dora with an indulgent smile.