Murder on the Clifftops Read online

  ‘But no, I cannot permit.’ He clapped his hands and raised his voice. ‘Morlay! Come here at once!’

  After a moment, Fernand emerged from an outhouse. His expression was at first sullen, but when he saw Melissa his face lit up and he hurried towards her, his right hand extended and his black eyes shining with pleasure.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ça va?’

  As she gave him her hand and returned his greeting, Melissa was aware of disapproval on the faces of the others. Iris’s merely registered anxiety, but Bonard’s expression was one of disdain. In his book, no doubt, servants did not shake hands with ladies.

  ‘Carry Madame’s equipment into the classroom,’ he commanded.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Fernand lifted Iris’s easel, portfolio and box of water-colours from the car and the two of them marched off.

  ‘Good luck, Iris,’ Melissa called after her. ‘See you this evening.’

  Iris glanced over her shoulder and waved. ‘Thanks!’

  Bonard turned again to Melissa. ‘We serve an alfresco lunch at mid-day,’ he said with a gracious smile and a flash of gold teeth. ‘Should your day’s programme permit, we should be most honoured if you would join us.’

  ‘I’d like that very much – thank you,’ she said, and he turned and followed the others into the house. No one would have guessed, she reflected, that a fatal accident had taken place on his land less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Juliette appeared, carrying a large watering-can. She was very like her brother, with the same fine dark eyes, but her skin was pale as if she had spent most of her life indoors. Her grey hair was drawn into an old-fashioned bun; in her striped blouse and plain dark skirt, she had the air of a village schoolmistress. She responded laconically to Melissa’s greeting as she began attending to the flowers, carefully removing spent blossoms and drenching the containers with water.

  ‘I wish I could grow geraniums like that,’ said Melissa. ‘Do you enjoy gardening?’

  The woman did not lift her eyes from her task. ‘It is part of my duties,’ she replied.

  ‘This is a beautiful place. Have you always lived here in Roziac?’

  ‘Yes.’ The monosyllable was accompanied by a sharp sideways glance. It was not encouraging, but Melissa persevered. Juliette would almost certainly be a more reliable source of information than her brother, if only she could be persuaded to talk.

  ‘Then you must know a great deal about the history of the region.’

  Juliette spent several seconds shaking the last drops of water from the can before replying, with apparent reluctance, ‘Our history has not always been happy, Madame.’

  ‘I know. I have recently been reading about it and today I plan to visit the Musée du Désert.’

  ‘You will no doubt learn there all you need to know.’

  The conversation would probably have ended there if Fernand had not returned. He hurried over to the two women with the same eagerness he had shown a few minutes before.

  ‘Madame! Permit me to present my sister. Juliette, Madame shares our cause!’

  ‘Fernand, kindly refill this for me!’ Juliette held out the can. ‘So you are a Protestant, Madame? Have you visited our Temple in Anduze? It is a very fine building.’

  Melissa was sure that Juliette had intentionally misinterpreted her brother’s remark and was itching to probe more deeply, but before she could think of some diplomatic way of doing so, Alain Gebrec emerged from the house.

  If the previous day’s tragedy had caused Bonard shock or distress, any such feelings had been concealed behind his courteous welcome. The same could not be said of his assistant, who was pale and heavy-eyed, his expression sombre. He returned Melissa’s greeting mechanically and addressed Fernand in a voice stiff with suppressed emotion.

  ‘Today you will continue repairing the barrier.’

  Fernand responded with a resentful glare. ‘Impossible!’ he declared shortly. ‘The path is still closed and in any case I have other work to attend to.’ Muttering under his breath about ‘sales flics’, he deliberately turned on his heel and strode away.

  Gebrec’s colour rose; his eyes dilated and his nostrils quivered. He took a step forward and opened his mouth as if to call the man back and reprimand him for his insolence, but at that moment the first students arrived and he checked himself, forced a smile and went to greet them. There was no sign of Juliette, who had evidently finished watering the flowers and gone back indoors. Returning to her car, Melissa set off on her morning’s expedition.

  The tiny hamlet of Le Mas Soubeyran, perched high above the River Gardon, basked contentedly in the morning sun. Melissa found a shady spot to park the Golf and spent a little while strolling among the old stone houses, admiring the magnificent trees and the towering peaks that encircled them.

  At that early hour few tourists had arrived, but already there was plenty of activity. A tractor was dragging a hay-tosser round a tiny field; women in bright overalls were opening up the handful of cafés and souvenir shops, wiping tables and chairs and adjusting sunshades, chasing cats from doorways and exchanging greetings with the post-girl as she puttered past on her moped. Every corner was a riot of brilliant flowers; Melissa exclaimed aloud at the sight of a lemon tree laden with ripe fruit and a woman leaning from an upstairs window waved and called a greeting.

  In contrast to the heat outside, the air in the museum was cool and refreshing. The time flew as Melissa moved from one room to another, studying the exhibits, poring over old documents and filling pages of her notebook. She emerged a couple of hours later, steeped in history, burning with ideas for her novel and hungry for her lunch.

  Back at Les Châtaigniers, a police car was parked alongside the other vehicles in the yard. As Melissa drove in, Officer Hassan emerged from the house. He spotted her immediately and strode towards her, his face almost bisected by his enormous grin.

  ‘Good day, Officer. How are your investigations going?’

  The grin faded. ‘The report of the médecin légiste suggests that the death was accidental,’ he confided in a low voice which Melissa could have sworn held a note of regret. Her suspicions were confirmed a second later as he continued, ‘But myself, I am not entirely satisfied. I shall pursue my enquiries for a few days further.’

  ‘You mean you do not share the view of the médecin légiste?’

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly the man died as the result of a fall from the cliff. The injury to the head was almost certainly caused by striking a projection as he fell – there were fragments of rock in the wound. But what caused that fall, Madame?’ He tilted back his head, compressed his lips and paused for dramatic effect. ‘That is what we must establish,’ he intoned, wagging a forefinger. ‘That is the purpose of my investigation. This morning, I have been examining more witnesses.’ He leaned forward again, rolling his eyes towards the house and back. ‘There are certain persons who seem to find my questions . . . disturbing.’

  ‘Are you suggesting there may have been foul play?’

  ‘One must take nothing for granted! Always one probes beneath the surface in these cases.’ He tapped his nose and Melissa struggled to keep a straight face as she pictured him burrowing for clues like an ant-eater in search of termites.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you have had considerable experience,’ she murmured, suspecting that he had nothing of the kind.

  He nodded importantly, mouth bunched, cheeks blown out. ‘You understand these matters better than most, Madame. Well, I have other cases to attend to.’ He stepped back and saluted. ‘I shall return in a day or two. And this evening – if I may be permitted to remind you of your promise, Madame?’

  ‘To sign your books? With pleasure!’

  ‘Madame is most kind!’ He gave an obsequious little bow, returned to his car and drove away. A few minutes later, a minibus with ‘Centre Cévenol d’Etudes’ painted on its sides rolled through the gateway. Alain Gebrec was at the wheel and beside him, stiff-backed and with her head held con
fidently erect, sat Iris. The vehicle crunched to a standstill on the gravel and the members of her class began scrambling out, lugging their artists’ paraphernalia.

  ‘How did it go?’ asked Melissa.

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Chrissie with an air of rapture.

  ‘Fantastic!’ agreed Mervyn.

  There was vigorous head-nodding and exclamations of ‘Splendid!’, ‘Most inspiring!’ and ‘Fascinating!’ from the rest of the group. Jack stepped forward to help Iris alight and carry her easel and box of water-colours. She accepted the praise and attention with a gracious smile; in her flowing dress of printed cotton and her wide straw hat decorated with flowers, she had the air of a priestess of some rustic cult, surrounded by her acolytes.

  Alain Gebrec returned from putting the minibus away. ‘Lunch will be served on the terrace in fifteen minutes,’ he informed them.

  ‘Just time for a wash and brush-up.’ Iris led the way indoors, swinging her arms like a child playing at soldiers.

  Melissa fell into step beside her. ‘I told you it would be a doddle, didn’t I?’

  Iris gave a serene smile, her grey eyes shining. ‘Seem happy, don’t they?’

  ‘Ecstatic! You’ve got off to a flying start.’

  ‘Hope I can keep it up.’

  ‘Sure you can.’

  The buffet lunch was once more laid out on the terrace. The members of Philippe Bonard’s class were already gathered round the table, chatting in French – at various levels of competence – under the attentive ear of their pedagogue. Observing him, Melissa found herself admiring his professionalism; like the proprietor of a high-class restaurant, he spoke to every individual in turn, inviting comments, listening to responses, discussing particular difficulties.

  Waiting his turn to reach the buffet, Dieter Erdle was talking to Janey, who was listening with her glossy fair head tilted at an engaging angle, while Rose, wearing a cat-like smile that barely concealed her antagonism, hovered at his elbow. Dora Lavender was helping herself to food; when she had taken what she wanted, she picked up an empty plate and without a word pushed it into her friend’s hand. Every line of her body registered contemptuous disapproval.

  Juliette bustled to and fro, bringing supplies of bread, checking that all was in order. Observing her, Melissa sensed that feelings of anxiety lay beneath the composed correctness of her manner. Once, she caught the woman looking directly at her; for a moment, the guard dropped and the sombre eyes seemed to signal an appeal before someone approached her with a request and she turned away to comply.

  Melissa had a shrewd idea what lay behind Juliette’s unease. There was no doubt in her mind that Hassan’s mysterious nods and nose-tappings were a reference to Fernand; he must have picked up the gossip that Monsieur Gauthier had repeated and his eagerness to find evidence of foul play in the death of Wolfgang Klein was transparent. She remembered how Dora Lavender had reported hearing Juliette scolding her brother after the discovery of the body. So far from a concern that he had carelessly, albeit unwittingly, allowed Klein to embark on a fatal expedition, she must have been fearful that his eccentric fantasies and public hostility towards the young German might rebound on them both.

  When lunch was over, people began drifting away to drink their coffee in some shady corner of the gardens. Iris was sitting cross-legged on the grass under a tree, surrounded by her students and entirely at her ease. She glanced across and beckoned, but Melissa, pretending not to notice, returned to the table where Juliette was loading plates and cutlery on to a tray.

  ‘Allow me to help you,’ she said.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, as if Juliette was weighing in her mind the propriety of accepting such an offer from a guest of her employer against her own desperate need of a confidante. Then she gravely inclined her head.

  ‘Thank you, Madame.’

  ‘Fine. Is there another tray in the kitchen?’

  ‘But yes, on the buffet. I will fetch it for you.’

  ‘No need. I’ll get it – I know the way.’

  Ignoring Juliette’s protests, Melissa went indoors. Having some while earlier spotted Fernand trudge across the yard and into the house by a side entrance, she had a shrewd idea of where to find him and was burning with curiosity to hear what – if anything – he might have to say about his interview with Hassan.

  She found him seated at a wooden table in the large kitchen with his back to the window, staring down at a plate of food. The shutters were closed against the sun, throwing his face into shadow, but his eyes glittered in the subdued light as he lifted his head and gazed at Melissa in the tense, wary attitude of an animal in the wild.

  ‘Has he gone?’ he asked in a hoarse voice.

  ‘Officer Hassan? He went long ago. You are quite safe,’ she replied.

  His shoulders relaxed a shade and he sat a little more upright. ‘Never will I betray Roland!’ he said fiercely. ‘I told him nothing. Nothing!’ He banged his fist on the table and a bottle of mineral water danced at his elbow. The food in front of him was barely touched, but the piece of bread beside the plate had been torn to fragments.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Melissa said quietly. ‘Eat your meal.’ She went to the massive wooden dresser that stood in the corner and picked up a tray. His eyes followed every move she made.

  ‘That traitor . . . he would have led our enemies to our secret refuge,’ he declared.

  ‘The one beneath the cliff, near the belvedere?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘You saw him there?’

  He shook his head emphatically. Hunched over the plate, he began forking the food into his mouth, one forearm resting on the table. He chewed noisily and took a swig of water from the bottle before replying, setting it down with a thump.

  ‘I saw no one. I heard nothing.’ He repeated the words as if he had learned them by rote. Suddenly, he shot out a hand and grabbed her own in hard, powerful fingers, staring up at her with a feverish light in his eyes.

  ‘We must remain watchful!’ he said urgently.

  A frisson of fear clawed at her stomach, but she managed to keep her voice level as she replied, ‘Yes, indeed we must.’

  Juliette came bustling in with a laden tray. The sight of Melissa in conversation with her brother brought a frown to her face.

  ‘Haven’t you finished yet?’ she scolded him. ‘It’s time you were out of my kitchen – you are in the way!’

  He started, withdrew his hand and half rose, looking as guilty as a child caught stealing jam. Melissa returned to the terrace to fill her tray; when she came back, Fernand had gone and Juliette was loading a large dishwasher. She was plainly ill at ease; several times she took a quick breath and opened her mouth as if to speak, then turned back to her task, frowning and biting her lips.

  Melissa took the bull by the horns. ‘You brother has some strange fancies,’ she said. ‘Has he always had this obsession with the Camisards?’

  For a moment, she regretted speaking. Tears sprang into Juliette’s eyes and her mouth trembled, but she managed to control herself.

  ‘Oh, the Camisards,’ she murmured with a sad little grimace that seemed intended as a smile. ‘That was a game we used to play with our friends as children. The boys acted all the grown-up characters in turn; myself, I always had the role of the page-boy of Villars – you know the story?’

  ‘Of how Villars disguised himself as a sort of divine messenger and his page as a magical shepherd boy? I was reading about it only this morning, in the Musée du Désert.’

  ‘Then no doubt you know that Roland, one of the Camisard leaders, did not believe the promise that the wrongs of the Protestants would be righted. He thought it was a trap and fought on for a while with a few followers, but in the end he was betrayed. It is a story of treachery, but also of great courage. Fernand was fascinated by it – almost obsessed, as you say, Madame – when he was young.’

  ‘Roland is his hero, isn’t he?’

  Again, Juliette seemed to be s
truggling with tears. ‘The Roland of whom he speaks is not the ancient Camisard leader, but our elder brother who was tortured and shot by the Gestapo,’ she said huskily, pulling a handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbing her eyes. It was a full minute before she was able to speak again.

  ‘Our Roland was just sixteen when he joined the Maquis, the youngest of the group. They had a hiding place – a cave beneath the cliff – where they used to meet and store their weapons. Sometimes they would conceal a refugee there and Roland would act as their guide. Fernand was too young to join the group, but he would take food to them. He could slip through the forest as silently as a cat!’

  ‘That must be the secret refuge that he spoke to me about?’

  ‘Yes. In our family, only he and Roland knew where it was.’

  ‘He seems to think I know where it is.’

  ‘You must have said something . . . he is confused in his mind, Madame, and when one considers what he suffered, who can wonder at it?’ Juliette fiddled with the controls of the dishwasher, surreptitiously dabbing her cheeks. ‘Those who had been concealed there knew of the existence of the refuge, but of course they kept silent,’ she continued. ‘All save one, a spy, who betrayed our brother to the Gestapo.’ At the memory, her strong features hardened as if cast in concrete and bitter hatred flared in her eyes. When she spoke again her voice had a new, rasping note that brought a tingle to Melissa’s spine.

  ‘To learn of its whereabouts and the names of his comrades they tortured Roland, but he would not speak. Then the commandant had the fiendish inspiration to use his younger brother as a weapon. Soldiers came to the house and tore Fernand from our mother’s arms. Never, never will I forget that terrible day!’ Anguish contorted her features.

  Melissa, too, felt close to tears at the sight of the other woman’s pain and she reached for her hand. It felt like ice. ‘Don’t say any more if it distresses you,’ she whispered.