Murder on the Clifftops

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘You should talk to Dieter,’ Rose continued. ‘He’s interested in history.’

  ‘Really?’ Seeing the shadow that passed over Dora’s face, Melissa kept her tone casual, but Rose was determined to pursue the point.

  ‘Yes, really. He’s been reading lately about France under the Occupation. Did you know that people from all over Europe came to the Cévennes to hide from the Nazis? Even some Germans – although, of course, some of them were spies trying to infiltrate the Resistance.’

  ‘I suppose that explains those so-called jokes the pair of you were making earlier,’ said Dora with a frown. ‘I must say, I thought they were in rather poor taste.’

  The atmosphere was becoming distinctly edgy and Melissa made an effort to restore harmony. ‘People don’t change, do they? The same sort of thing happened during the religious wars that I’m researching.’

  ‘You simply must talk to Dieter,’ insisted Rose. Her face fell as a thought struck her. ‘Will our lessons still go ahead, do you think? I mean, the police won’t want to close the centre after that terrible accident?’

  ‘Don’t be a goose, Rose,’ said Dora. ‘Whyever would they do that?’

  ‘I only thought they might say there’d been negligence or something – because the safety fence was broken.’

  ‘You mean that path and the belvedere are on Philippe Bonard’s property?’ asked Melissa. ‘It was his responsibility to see that it was safe?’

  ‘Yes, but we were all warned that it was dangerous, and anyway the path was quite overgrown until recently,’ Dora explained. ‘Fernand spent all last week clearing it and he’d only just begun mending the fence. That’s what the rails are for.’

  ‘So Mr Klein knew he shouldn’t have gone up there?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but you know what young people are. He was so keen to find this grotto thing, he might not have taken any notice of warnings.’

  ‘So you think our class will go ahead as usual?’ persisted Rose.

  ‘Of course it will.’ Dora was beginning to sound impatient, no doubt guessing what lay behind her friend’s single-minded questions. ‘The police may want to speak to everyone, but I’m sure it won’t interfere with the running of the school. I do feel sorry for Philippe Bonard, though. The publicity won’t be very nice for him.’

  ‘He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, Iris?’ asked Rose.

  ‘Known him for a while.’ A tinge of red crept into Iris’s cheeks and she gave close attention to the cheese and walnut flan that one of the Gauthier girls had just put in front of her.

  ‘He used to live near Avignon, in the same village as Iris,’ Melissa explained.

  Dora raised her eyebrows. ‘You live in France?’

  ‘November to March,’ said Iris gruffly. ‘Can’t stand the English winters – too damp.’

  ‘Dieter’s firm has an office in Avignon. That’s why he has to improve his French,’ said Rose, suddenly animated. ‘Although it’s very good already,’ she added with a touch of pride.

  There was a moment’s uneasy silence before Melissa, in response to an exasperated glance from Dora, remarked, ‘I believe Philippe used to be quite a prominent figure in Avignon. Isn’t that right, Iris?’

  Iris nodded enthusiastically. ‘Still is. They wanted him to run for mayor last year, but he had too many business commitments. Been planning this enterprise for years . . . great dedication to promoting and protecting the French language . . . keen on the arts too . . . should have been a teacher . . . really gifted.’

  Even among close friends, Iris was not often as communicative as this. Not for the first time in recent weeks Melissa felt a twinge of uneasiness on her friend’s behalf, which gave her common cause with Dora.

  ‘He seems very attached to Alain Gebrec,’ commented Rose.

  The remark brought a sniff of contempt from Iris. ‘Can’t think why!’ she said disdainfully.

  ‘I must say, I didn’t care for all that public display of emotion this afternoon,’ said Dora primly. ‘I consider Philippe was far too soft with him.’

  ‘He must have been very shocked – I know I was,’ said Rose.

  ‘One expects a man to show a little more backbone,’ asserted Dora. ‘Don’t you agree, Melissa?’

  Melissa had her own views on the relationship between Bonard and his assistant, but felt this was hardly the time to express them. She murmured something non-committal and changed the subject to golf, which proved to be Dora’s ruling passion and kept them going until the dessert.

  They were drinking coffee when Monsieur Gauthier came hurrying over to inform them that ‘a person’ wished to speak urgently to all who had been present when – at this point he discreetly lowered his voice – the dreadful discovery had been made.

  ‘Who is this person?’ asked Melissa.

  Monsieur Gauthier glanced nervously round the room as if afraid the information would ruin the digestion of his other guests.

  ‘Un flic,’ he said in a contemptuous whisper. ‘He awaits you in the salon. One at a time,’ he added, with bobbing glances round the table.

  ‘Oh dear!’ Rose looked dismayed. ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘It’ll be all right, dear, don’t worry.’ Dora patted her hand.

  ‘You first.’ Iris nodded to Melissa. ‘You’re used to this sort of thing. And we could all do with a digestif,’ she informed Monsieur Gauthier.

  ‘But of course!’

  Melissa made her way to the salon. As she entered, a uniformed gendarme rose from a chair, stood to attention and gave a little bow. He was a striking figure with flashing dark eyes, aquiline features that suggested a Moorish ancestor, and a luxuriant moustache of a rich chocolate brown.

  ‘My apologies for disturbing you, Madame. I am Officier de Police Judiciaire Hassan, at your service.’

  ‘Good evening, Officer,’ said Melissa with a smile. ‘How can I help you? Please sit down.’

  He complied with a slight air of surprise, as if unaccustomed to such a friendly reception. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and opened it.

  ‘May I first have your name?’

  Melissa spelled it out for him. As he wrote, his solemn expression relaxed into a broad smile, displaying a set of large teeth the colour of clotted cream.

  ‘Is it possible? Are you the famous Mel Craig?’ She nodded. ‘But I am one of your most ardent fans! I read every one of your novels!’ Excitement sent his eyes swivelling in their sockets.

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ It was a declaration that she had heard many times, but it never failed to give her pleasure.

  ‘I have them all at home,’ he went on. ‘Would you . . . could I possibly ask you to . . . ?’ Quite overcome, he seemed unable to complete his request.

  ‘Autograph them? With pleasure,’ she assured him.

  For several seconds he sat gazing first at her and then at her name in his notebook. ‘Mel Craig,’ he repeated, then cleared his throat and assumed his official expression. ‘When did you arrive in Roziac, Madame?’

  ‘Yesterday evening.’

  ‘And you were with the party who found the body of Monsieur Wolfgang Klein this afternoon?’

  ‘That’s right. The proprietor of the study centre invited us all for an informal lunch and then suggested we walk to the belvedere. It was very hot, but it seemed that the afternoon was the best time to go because of the light.’

  ‘You study French at Les Châtaigniers?’

  ‘No.’ Briefly, Melissa explained her presence and he lowered his notebook to gaze at her in wonderment.

  ‘But what an honour for Roziac! When may I hope to have the joy of reading this masterpiece?’

  ‘Not for two years or so, I’m afraid,’ she said, and his face fell. She pointed to his notebook. ‘Don’t you think we should proceed with the interview, Officer?’

  ‘Ah yes, quite so.’ He coughed. ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened at the time the body was discovered?’

  ‘It was my friend, Miss Ash, who actually
saw him first.’

  As accurately as she could, Melissa related everything that the members of the party had done and said from the time they arrived at the belvedere, while Hassan scribbled furiously in his notebook. Having trained her powers of observation and memory over the years in the interests of her writing, she was able to give a detailed account that caused his eyes to widen.

  ‘You are the perfect witness!’ he informed her with another massive smile. ‘Now, one more question. On your way up to the belvedere, did you observe anyone other than the members of your party?’

  ‘There was a man unloading rails from a trailer. I understand he was preparing to mend the barrier . . . he is employed by Monsieur Bonard.’

  ‘You know his name?’

  ‘Monsieur Gebrec addressed him as Fernand.’

  ‘Ah yes!’ Hassan nodded and riffled through the pages of his notebook. ‘Fernand Morlay. I have not yet had time to interrogate the personnel. This man could perhaps be a key witness!’ He gazed at Melissa with flaring nostrils, like a hound on the scent. ‘This is a very peculiar case, Madame,’ he said, pursing his lips and assuming a mysterious expression.

  ‘In what way, Officer? I understood it to be an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘Ah!’ He tapped the side of his prominent nose with his pen. ‘There are some unusual features.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘But we must of course await the report of the médecin légiste – that is to say, the pathologiste. Meanwhile, my investigation will continue.’ With some reluctance, it seemed to Melissa, he got to his feet. ‘I am most grateful for your help, Madame.’ He hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘And I should be most obliged if you would do me the great honour . . . your books . . . could I perhaps be permitted to call here again before you leave Roziac?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come about this time tomorrow evening, if you like!’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Madame.’ The admiration in his gaze was almost embarrassing. Then, remembering his official role, he cleared his throat once more and asked her if she would please be so kind as to ask another of the ladies to spare him a few moments. ‘Although,’ he added gallantly, ‘I doubt if they can improve on your so-professional observations.’

  She found them sitting round a low table on the little terrace, surrounded by containers full of bright flowers. A candle in a glass shade threw a soft light on their faces, reminding Melissa of a painting by Georges de La Tour. The air was fresh and fragrant; somewhere in the deepening dusk, a nightingale sang.

  The mountains, all detail by now obscured, made an irregular pattern of dark, brooding shapes. The sky overhead was clear, but clouds had rolled up from the west and were lying low on the horizon, so that in places it was hard to see where the land ended and the sky began. The Porte des Cévennes, two mighty peaks that rise on either side of the Gardon valley like the fortified gateway to an ancient town, had become looming shadows, the space between them lost in impenetrable darkness. Melissa had an impression of being enclosed, trapped in some primeval stone prison with no way out. Despite the mildness of the evening, she shivered.

  ‘You’ve been a long time,’ Iris commented.

  ‘Was it very frightening?’ asked Rose timidly.

  ‘Not a bit, just a few routine questions. You’ve nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Oh well, better get it over with.’ Dora got to her feet. ‘Come on Rose, we’ll go together. He can’t eat us.’

  ‘But he said “one at a time”,’ said Rose hesitantly.

  ‘I don’t care what he said. I’m not having you intimidated.’

  Dora practically marched her friend indoors. Melissa sank into a chair and picked up the glass of brandy that Iris had ordered for her.

  ‘What’s this copper like?’ asked Iris.

  ‘A Barbary pirate with a grin like a banana split!’ said Melissa with a chuckle. ‘He’s quite young – I suspect he may be newly promoted.’

  ‘Oh?’ Iris looked up from her crême de cassis. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s very keen to make a mystery out of that poor lad’s death. Talked about “interrogating the personnel” and “unusual features of the case”.’

  ‘What unusual features?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Maybe he’s been listening to the village gossip.’

  ‘That’s probably it.’

  It occurred to Melissa that she had said nothing to Officer Hassan about her brief conversation with Fernand Morlay. She hadn’t deliberately withheld the information; he simply hadn’t asked the right question. Another reason to suppose that he might be a little inexperienced. Her old friend Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Harris of the Gloucestershire CID would not have made that elementary mistake.

  Four

  Breakfast was served on the terrace. The air was fresh, the sky a limpid, cloudless blue. The morning light gave the encircling mountains a newly-washed quality and Melissa fancied that they had stepped back a little, their rocky arms outspread as if pointing towards the distant Porte des Cévennes and saying, ‘Look, the gate stands open. You are free to come and go as you please.’

  She was hungry and tackled the fresh, crisp rolls with gusto, but Iris fiddled abstractedly with hers, making no attempt to eat and responding morosely to the greeting of little Brigitte Gauthier, neat and pretty in her black skirt and white blouse, who came to serve them with coffee.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ Melissa had learned during the three days it had taken them to reach Roziac that Iris tended to be uncommunicative first thing in the morning. Today, however, she was more than usually preoccupied. ‘Not worried about the course, surely? Everyone seemed pretty keen and looking forward to it. I’m sure they’ll find it all most inspiring!’

  Iris managed a half-smile at the mimicry of Chrissie’s husky voice and intense gaze, but she was plainly ill at ease. ‘Wish I felt inspired,’ she muttered, reaching for a dish of apricot jam. She peered at it suspiciously, jabbing it with the spoon. ‘Wonder if this is home-made.’

  ‘Don’t know, but it tastes all right.’ Melissa sank her teeth into her second croissant. ‘What’s up, Iris?’

  ‘Not looking forward to this. Not sure I’ll be any good.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Never really wanted to do it.’

  ‘Then why on earth did you?’ As if I didn’t know, Melissa added mentally.

  ‘Philippe can be very persuasive,’ Iris mumbled, her nose buried in her coffee cup.

  ‘Oh, Iris! Fancy you falling for a load of Froggie flannel! I thought you had more sense!’

  Iris frowned and began picking at the crumbs on the paper tablecloth with restless fingers. ‘This venture means a lot to him,’ she said after a pause. ‘Wanted to help.’

  ‘And so you will. Stop worrying and eat your breakfast. Everything’ll be fine, you’ll see.’

  ‘Hope so.’ Still looking doubtful, Iris swallowed the mangled remains of her roll and drank a second cup of coffee.

  Melissa had spoken confidently but, for reasons totally different from Iris’s, she too felt uneasy. It wasn’t the first time her friend had become overfond of an unsuitable man. And if her own assessment of Philippe Bonard was accurate, he was more unsuitable than most, but with Iris panicking at the prospect of facing a group of strangers who had paid considerable sums to be instructed by her, this was hardly the moment to voice her doubts. Moral support was called for.

  ‘You’ll have that lot eating out of your hand in no time!’ she declared. ‘Just dash off one of your brilliant designs as a demo and then send ’em off to do their own thing. Piece of cake, you’ll see.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Iris looked marginally less downcast. ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘I’m going to Le Mas Soubeyran to visit Roland’s house.’

  ‘Roland?’

  ‘The Camisard leader I was telling you about yesterday. There’s a museum there as well. It should be fascinating.’

  ‘Really into this Camisar
d thing, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I am!’ Melissa felt the familiar surge of enthusiasm that always accompanied the birth of a new and promising idea for a plot. ‘I’ve been doing a bit of background reading and I’m sure I can use it as a setting. I wish I could get Fernand to talk about it rationally. I’ll bet he’s got loads of stories to tell.’

  ‘You promised to stay away from that nutter! May be something in that gossip!’

  ‘Oh, calm down, Iris. I’m sure he’s harmless enough. Anyway, we’d better be going. You want to arrive before the students, don’t you?’

  In the small reception area they met Rose and Dora on their way to take breakfast. The four exchanged greetings and approving comments on the weather, and wished one another a pleasant and profitable morning.

  ‘They seem cheerful,’ Melissa remarked as she and Iris made their way to the car. ‘Let’s hope Dora has talked some sense into Rose.’

  ‘Silly creature! Much too susceptible!’ said Iris.

  Melissa hid a smile. ‘How right you are,’ she murmured.

  They had driven down through France together in Melissa’s car so that she would be free to travel around on her researches during the day while Iris was busy with her course. The friendship between the two had developed over several years of living in adjoining cottages in the Cotswold countryside and they took a keen interest in one another’s work. Iris loyally bought and read every one of Melissa’s novels; Melissa had learned to appreciate Iris’s natural flair for spotting designs of delicate simplicity in the random juxtapositions of the natural world: a feather from a bird’s wing lying beside a mossy stone; a fallen leaf floating on still water; a cloud of seedheads blowing in the wind.

  During the short drive from the auberge she said little, responding to Melissa’s remarks with grunts and monosyllables, but, as they entered the courtyard at Les Châtaigniers, her eyes lit up at the sight of Philippe Bonard, immaculate in a suit of cream linen, silk shirt and cravat. He strode across the yard and shook them cordially by the hand.

  ‘Ah, my dear Iris, you see with what magnificent conditions we greet you!’ he exclaimed, spreading his hands and beaming up to heaven as if claiming personal responsibility for the sunshine. ‘All is most propitious for your enterprise. Yours also!’ He swept a bow towards Melissa as she prepared to help Iris unload her equipment.