‘Shall we continue?’ Alain Gebrec was becoming restless. ‘The light, it changes all the time.’ Obediently, the party moved off again. A short way further on they came to a clearing where a man was unloading wooden rails from a trailer hitched to a small tractor.
‘Isn’t that the chap who let us in?’ said Melissa.
Iris glanced across. ‘Looks like it.’
‘Hé, Fernand!’ called Gebrec as they passed. The man raised his head, nodded, and returned to his task. ‘Fernand is a most valuable employee,’ Gebrec continued, speaking French in accordance with the recently stated rules and raising his voice a little. ‘He can turn his hand to anything. Isn’t that right, Fernand?’
The man stood gazing at the party for a moment with an expression as wooden as the rail he had just lifted from the trailer. Then, without a word, he added it to a growing heap on the ground before reaching for another. Either he had not heard the praise, or cared nothing for it.
‘Not exactly a chatterbox, is he?’ someone observed.
‘Looks a bit of an oddball to me,’ said someone else.
‘He’s Juliette’s brother,’ said Dora Lavender. ‘I understand they belong to one of the oldest families in Roziac.’ It was the first spontaneous remark she had made since they set off.
‘Does he always work on Sundays?’ Eric wondered.
‘I have the impression that days of the week mean little to him,’ Dora replied. Her implication was obvious. There were murmurs and curious glances. One of the party asked if Fernand had been in the Resistance.
Gebrec shook his head. ‘I have no idea. It is possible.’
Rose Kettle gave an excited squeak. ‘Perhaps he thinks we’re the Gestapo!’ she giggled, earning a look of scorn from her friend, but a chuckle and a squeeze on the arm from Erdle.
‘Or spies?’ he suggested, with a sly glance in Gebrec’s direction.
The Frenchman reddened, nervously flicking the lock of hair from his forehead. He had removed his sunglasses and his pale blue eyes blinked in the strong light.
‘Oh, Fernand is a good fellow really,’ he said hurriedly. ‘A little suspicious of strangers perhaps – like quite a few of the people round here.’
‘Never take him for a Frenchman, would you?’ Iris commented to Melissa.
‘You mean Gebrec? No, he’s not exactly typical.’
‘Didn’t seem to appreciate the joke.’
‘I’m not surprised. That young man should have known better – life wasn’t funny for these people during the Occupation.’ A thought struck Melissa. ‘You go on – I’ll catch up.’
She returned to the clearing, where Fernand was stooping over his pile of rails. He straightened up as she approached, his black eyes watchful. He was a wiry man of fifty or so with strong weather-beaten features and sinewy arms as brown as the chestnuts for which the region was famous.
‘That must be hard work in this heat,’ she said with a smile.
His expression did not relax. ‘Hard enough.’
‘They tell me you have always lived in Roziac.’
‘So?’
‘I’m a writer – I’m interested in the history of these parts. I’ve read a lot about the Camisards and their struggles and I thought perhaps . . .’
The word ‘Camisards’ had an extraordinary effect on Fernand. He grabbed Melissa by the arm, a fanatical gleam in his eyes.
‘I am with Roland!’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Villars is not to be trusted. Tell the others!’ He released her arm and made agitated gestures to where the last of the party were vanishing among the trees. ‘Tell them! Warn them to go to the secret refuge!’
‘The secret refuge?’ Melissa was nonplussed. ‘Where is that?’
Fernand’s manner became suddenly hostile. ‘Who are you? One of Villars’ spies?’
‘No, of course not,’ she said uneasily, taking a step backwards. ‘I . . . I’m with Roland too . . . but I come from Florac.’
‘Ah! You bring news?’
‘Only . . . that the fight goes on,’ said Melissa, desperately improvising.
The man nodded eagerly. ‘To the death!’ His eyes switched to the path the group had taken. ‘Hurry! Warn them!’
‘Yes . . . yes, immediately.’ Melissa beat a hasty retreat. As she rejoined the track, she glanced over her shoulder. Fernand was calmly sorting rails as if he had forgotten her existence.
When she caught up with the others, they had come to a halt just short of the point where the path emerged into the open and were standing in a little knot around Gebrec.
‘What was all that about?’ Iris wanted to know.
‘Just some preliminary research. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later,’ she added, as Iris gave a dubious frown.
‘Mesdames et Messieurs, please listen carefully,’ Gebrec was saying. ‘We are approaching the belvedere. The cliff here is some two hundred metres high with a sheer drop into the river. There is a guard rail, but in places it is broken. Please, under no circumstances go too close to the edge as it may be unstable. Does everyone understand?’
One or two people exchanged doubtful glances and shook their heads.
‘Could you say that in English, please?’ said Daphne, looking up from the guide-book she was studying.
‘It is against the rules, but in the interests of safety . . .’ Gebrec repeated the warning in impeccable English.
‘And in German, if you please!’ The request, accompanied by a bland smile, came from Dieter Erdle. ‘In the interests of safety, of course!’
There was no answering smile from Gebrec. ‘I am sorry, I do not speak German,’ he said stiffly, in French.
‘You surprise me. It was my impression that you were . . . multilingual.’
For the second time Gebrec’s colour rose. ‘I know only French and English,’ he declared.
‘My mistake.’ Erdle gave a little bow. ‘Entschuldigen Sie bitte . . . excuse me, please.’
‘Did you not understand my warning about the guard rail?’
‘Aber natürlich. I merely thought there might be other German speakers present.’ With eyebrows raised, he glanced round the group but no one responded. ‘In that case . . .’ He turned back to Gebrec. ‘Shall we continue with our promenade?’
‘That looked like deliberate aggro,’ whispered Melissa. ‘I wonder what the game is.’
‘After the same woman?’ suggested Iris.
Melissa shook her head. ‘More to it than that.’
The party moved on. Through the thinning trees they caught glimpses of massive peaks soaring above their heads, stacked one behind the other like shapes on a collage, the lower slopes wooded, the bare, rocky crests baking in the sun. There was no movement in the air; as they emerged into the open, they were met by a searing blast of heat. Sunglasses were adjusted against the glare, hats tipped over eyes. Daphne reeled back into the shade and began fanning herself with her guide-book.
‘I’ve had enough of this – you can keep your vue panoramique!’ she gasped.
Her husband tenderly mopped her brow with his handkerchief.
‘Just rest for a tick and you’ll be all right, lovey,’ he assured her. ‘Can’t miss it after coming all this way, can we?’
Dora Lavender unfurled her umbrella and beckoned to Rose Kettle. ‘Come under here,’ she commanded. ‘You know you can’t stand the direct sun.’ Her voice was resonant and authoritarian, in total contrast to her friend’s high-pitched, excited chatter.
Rose, still keeping close to Dieter Erdle, shook her head. ‘I’ll be all right. I’ve got my shady hat . . . and my new sunglasses.’ She adjusted both items as she spoke, beaming archly up at Erdle. ‘Balenciaga!’ she informed him. ‘The glasses, I mean. Dreadfully expensive, of course, but I couldn’t resist them. Do you think they suit me?’
‘Most becoming,’ he assured her. ‘Now, let us admire this so-magnificent view that fellow keeps talking about.’
‘There’s no need to look so cross, Dora,’ she sai
d pettishly, over her shoulder.
‘You’ll have a migraine this evening.’
‘No I won’t.’ She trotted after Erdle. Dora shrugged and turned away, biting her lip.
‘What did I tell you?’ Iris hissed in Melissa’s ear. ‘I’ll bet she’s loaded.’
‘Never mind them. Just look at that!’
Gebrec had not exaggerated. Far below them, the little river Mauzère boiled and foamed over huge boulders between sheer, apparently unscaleable cliffs. The sun poured into the canyon like a giant searchlight, turning the spray to rainbows and the naked rock to glistening gold against the hard blue of the sky.
Uttering exclamations of admiration and delight, the members of the party split into twos and threes and wandered about, commenting and pointing, occasionally turning to their guide with a question. Cameras were focused, clicked and focused again. Daphne was coaxed into the open, still poring over her guide-book.
‘Come on, can’t miss this!’ urged her husband.
‘What’s this place called, Eric? I can’t find it in here.’
Gebrec, standing a few feet away, turned to explain. ‘The fact is, Madame Lovell, that compared with, say, the Gorges du Tarn, this is really not so well known. Still, I am sure you will agree that it is quite impressive.’
‘Oh rather, jolly impressive!’ agreed Eric with enthusiasm, adjusting his binoculars. ‘Look there, Daph! A red kite! What a bit of luck!’
A few heads turned to watch the majestic flight of the bird, lazily circling in the still air.
Melissa and Iris wandered over to what remained of the guard rail, a short distance from the edge of the cliff. From where they stood, they had a clear view in both directions.
‘There must have been some mighty powerful volcanic activity to chuck this lot up in the air,’ commented Melissa. ‘Look at the strata lines in that rock, they’re almost zig-zag!’
Iris nodded. ‘Awesome, isn’t it? Wonderful patterns, though.’ She craned forward to look down at the tossing, tumbling waters. ‘Hullo, there’s someone down there. Must have abseiled.’
‘Where?’
Iris pointed. ‘Lying on that ledge with his arm in the water. Trying to catch a fish by the looks of him. Or having a drink.’
‘He’s not moving,’ said Melissa, suddenly anxious.
‘Damn! Lost him!’ Eric stood behind them, gesticulating with his binoculars. ‘Got a good long look, though! Splendid specimen!’
‘I wonder if you’d mind lending me those for a moment?’ said Melissa.
‘Certainly!’ He unhooked the strap and handed them over. ‘Seen something interesting?’
Trying to conceal her anxiety for fear of causing unnecessary alarm, she fumbled with the focus. ‘There’s something at the foot of the cliff.’
Eric leaned on the rail and peered into the canyon. ‘Good Lord, it’s a man! Looks as if he’s fallen over.’ He turned and beckoned to Gebrec. ‘Monsieur, come here a minute! No Daphne, you stay away! Someone’s been badly hurt.’
‘Oh, mon Dieu!’ Gebrec recoiled in horror, clawing at his mouth with shaking fingers. ‘What shall we do?’
‘Is there a way down?’ asked Eric. ‘Someone ought to try and get help to him.’
Melissa had at last succeeded in focusing the binoculars. What she saw made her stomach turn over.
‘I’m afraid he’s beyond help,’ she said.
Two
Like the interlude between lightning and thunderclap, there were several moments of silence as the party absorbed the news. Eyes widened, hands flew to mouths; everyone’s gaze, at first riveted on Melissa, travelled beyond her to the sagging rail, over the edge of the cliff and into the void. There were horrified gasps, exclamations of ‘How dreadful!’, ‘My God!’ and ‘Are you sure?’ before the spell of immobility broke and everyone rushed to see for themselves.
‘Mesdames, Messieurs, have a care, I beg you!’ Alain Gebrec, his face grey, flew after them like a distraught sheepdog. ‘Keep away from the edge or there will be a disaster!’
Rose Kettle, peering downwards, appeared to recognise the victim. ‘It’s Wolfgang – Wolfgang Klein!’ she screamed and broke into wild sobs. Dora Lavender took her by the hand and tried to lead her away, but she broke free and threw herself at Dieter Erdle, who obligingly took her into his arms and began patting her shoulder, murmuring soothing words in German.
‘Rose, stop that ridiculous noise at once. You’re making a complete fool of yourself!’ Dora snapped. ‘You shouldn’t encourage her,’ she told Erdle, making another futile attempt to draw her friend away.
‘She has had a great shock.’ Erdle, still embracing Rose’s quivering form, returned Dora’s glare with a frown of reproof. Melissa, who had hastily stepped clear of the scramble to view the body, thought she detected a gleam of malice and the hint of a smile as he added, ‘She is a very sensitive lady.’
‘We’re all shocked, but we’re not screeching like hysterical schoolgirls.’ Scowling with fury and frustration, Dora rounded on Gebrec, who was wringing his hands and whimpering. ‘Don’t stand there with your mouth open! We must return to the house at once and report the accident,’ she scolded him in French.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He seemed grateful that someone else was taking charge.
‘There’s discipline for you,’ Melissa murmured. ‘Sticking to the school rules even in a crisis!’
‘Tough lady, that,’ Iris whispered back.
Hardly speaking a word, the party hurried back the way they had come, slipping and stumbling over the uneven ground. Halfway between the top and the clearing where Fernand had left his tractor, they met him hauling a bundle of rails across the track by a rope. He stood aside to let them go by, his face inscrutable. Gebrec stopped and blurted out the news, but the man’s expression hardly changed. Glancing over her shoulder, Melissa saw him dump the bundle in some undergrowth before following at a short distance when everyone else had passed.
The ancient mas which was now the home of the Centre Cévenol d’Etudes was called Les Châtaigniers after the stately chestnut trees among which it was set. It was built on two floors, with thick walls, small windows and a low-pitched roof covered in tiles shaped like flattened scallop shells. In the centre of the original façade, effectively dividing the house into two separate wings, rose the tower which Melissa had observed from the forest path; below it, an archway led to a gravelled courtyard dotted with huge pottery urns overflowing with geraniums. On the far side, an opening in a stone wall led into the garden through a pergola hung with clematis and trumpet vines.
No expense had been spared in the conversion. In addition to the three lecture rooms and a well-stocked library, an extension at the rear housed a salon, a games room with sliding glass doors on to the terrace and a conservatory which doubled as a second salon when rain or cold drove the students indoors.
Bonard must have been watching from his private quarters in the tower as the party returned and guessed from their demeanour that something was wrong. When they straggled into the courtyard, he came hurrying out to meet them. Alain Gebrec rushed at him and buried his face on the older man’s shoulder. Bonard patted his head as if comforting a hurt child, murmuring, ‘Quietly! Quietly! Tell Philippe what has happened.’
Gebrec began babbling incoherently.
‘There’s been an accident,’ Dora interposed, eyeing the pair with an expression of mingled contempt and disgust. ‘Someone – we think it may be young Wolfgang Klein – has fallen on to the rocks below the belvedere. We’re afraid he may be dead.’
Bonard gasped in horror. ‘But this is terrible! We must call the garde champêtre . . . the sapeurs pompiers . . . an ambulance . . . come, Alain!’ Leading his shaken assistant by the arm, he hurried indoors, leaving the others standing about in small groups, uncertain what to do.
‘Revolting display!’ snorted Dora. She strode across to a line of cars parked under an awning of bamboo canes. Opening the boot of a dark red Sierra, she flung in t
he golfing umbrella, slammed the lid and glanced at her watch. ‘It’s nearly tea-time!’ she announced to the world at large. ‘We could all use a cup. Let’s go into the garden.’ She led the way and the others trailed after her.
‘Rose, you’d better go and lie down in the salon,’ continued Dora. I’ll bring your tea in to you.’
‘I’m all right, really. Dieter is looking after me,’ simpered Rose. She gazed up at Erdle with a besotted smile on her round face as he installed her on a chaise-longue, adjusted a sunshade over her head and arranged cushions at her back.
Dora flushed and turned away. ‘I’ll go and have a word with Juliette about the tea,’ she muttered and disappeared into the house.
Iris and Melissa exchanged glances.
‘Going to be an explosion before long,’ whispered Iris.
‘What a dreadful thing to happen!’ Eric Lovell, mopping his face with a handkerchief, sank beside his perspiring wife on to a canopied swinging couch. The others settled down to discuss the situation, first in subdued whispers, then more animatedly, some even making vaguely flippant comments, at which one or two laughed nervously and then looked uneasy, as if they had been caught telling risqué jokes in church.
‘That lady and her friend seemed to recognise the . . . whoever it was,’ said a frizzy-haired girl called Sue.
Everyone glanced in Rose’s direction.
‘I don’t see how they could have . . . not at that distance,’ said her friend Janey, frowning. She looked round from one to the other. ‘Anyway, you couldn’t see his face, could you?’
‘Perhaps it was by his clothes,’ suggested the bearded young man in torn T-shirt and cut-down jeans whom Jack had described as a hippie. Melissa had learned on the walk that he was called Mervyn and his girlfriend Chrissie.
‘They said it was a Wolfgang Klein,’ said Eric. ‘There’s no one of that name in our group, is there?’
‘Must have been in last week’s lot,’ suggested Jack, standing up. ‘I’ll go and ask Mrs Kettle.’
‘He seems a nice man. Is he on his own?’ enquired Daphne.
Murder on the Clifftops Page 2
