Murder on the Clifftops

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Yes, yes! I must tell the whole story to make you understand. My brother is a gentle man, he would hurt no one. But he has these terrible fancies and I am afraid they will one day get him into serious trouble. That accident . . . it would not surprise me if, in his mind, that poor young man was the one whose treachery led to the death of our brother.’

  ‘Yes, he referred to him as a traitor just now,’ Melissa agreed thoughtfully. ‘And Officer Hassan seems very anxious to prove that the death of Mr Klein was not accidental, even though the médecin légiste thinks it was.’

  Juliette gave a contemptuous snort; had she been a man, Melissa felt, she would have spat on the ground. ‘That stupid flic! Trying to impress his superiors, no doubt . . . but Fernand will tell him nothing. It would be to him like betraying Roland and all their comrades in the Maquis. But I swear to you, Madame, my brother would not harm any living creature. Even in our childish games, he would never be the one to take a life.’

  For a moment Juliette’s face grew soft as she remembered those far-off days of innocent pleasure.

  ‘You were speaking of the day the Gestapo took him,’ Melissa reminded her gently.

  ‘Ah, yes, that dreadful day. Fernand seldom speaks of it himself; in fact, he did not speak a word for many days after, but the pain in the eyes of that child . . . I cannot describe it.’ Juliette covered her eyes and drew deep, racking breaths in her struggle not to break down.

  Melissa led her to a chair and she sank into it, staring into emptiness, her clasped hands lying on the table.

  ‘Only some weeks later did we learn from an escaped prisoner exactly what had happened.’ Her voice took on a remote quality, like someone speaking from the grave. ‘They took Fernand to the prison where they were holding Roland, to the exercise yard, and made all the other prisoners watch while they brought him before them. He could barely stand, they had beaten him so badly. Fernand gave a terrible cry and tried to run to him, but the soldiers held him back. Then the commandant told him that unless he revealed the secret of the refuge, his brother would be shot, there and then, before his eyes.’

  ‘The monster!’ Outrage took Melissa by the throat, as if it would drag her physically into the other woman’s world of grief and bitter memories. ‘To do that to a little boy! How old was he?’

  ‘Not quite nine years old, Madame, and so small for his age.’

  ‘Hardly more than a baby.’ Melissa had a sudden vision of her own son Simon at that age, secure and happy, his world untroubled by war or threats of violence. Tears of mingled pity and anger filled her eyes, but she made no effort to brush them away.

  ‘What did he do?’ she whispered. ‘Did he speak?’

  ‘No, Madame, he did not.’ Proudly, Juliette lifted her head. ‘The commandant shouted questions and threats at him while the soldiers held their rifles trained on his brother. He stood there, bewildered and terrified, and all of a sudden Roland cried out: “Say nothing! I, your leader Roland, command you to remain silent!”’

  ‘As if they were playing their game about the Camisards?’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The commandant seemed to realise that he had failed. He gave the order to fire.’

  There was a long interval. In the background, the dishwasher whirred and splashed; from outside came the sound of a tractor starting up. At length, Juliette got to her feet.

  ‘I must not detain you any longer, Madame,’ she said. ‘Thank you for listening.’

  ‘I am honoured that you should confide in me. Does Monsieur Bonard know?’

  ‘Who would tell him? It is a story from the past.’

  ‘But he must be aware of some of the strange things that Fernand says?’

  Juliette dismissed the notion with a shrug. ‘Why should a gentleman like Monsieur Bonard concern himself with our affairs?’ It was evident that she held old-fashioned ideas on the relationship between master and servants.

  ‘What about Monsieur Gebrec?’

  ‘He speaks only to give orders – but, since he is so highly thought of by our employer . . .’ Her lip curled, suggesting that, for whatever reason, her respect for Philippe Bonard did not extend to his aide.

  It occurred to Melissa that if Hassan knew the circumstances of Roland Morlay’s death, he might see it as a motive for murder: a half-crazed younger brother mistaking for an enemy the unfortunate young German who had shown an innocent interest in the ‘secret refuge’. His sister had taken an extraordinary risk by confiding in her.

  Juliette seemed to have read her thoughts. ‘I tell you these things, Madame, because I know my brother trusts you,’ she said. ‘It is unlikely that he will speak of them to you, but if he should do so, if you did not know the truth, you might feel it necessary to tell the police. If that flic should hear the story . . .’

  ‘He will not hear it from me.’ Melissa gave the promise without a moment’s reflection. ‘I have not even told the officer of my conversation with Fernand yesterday in the woods, only that I saw him working there.’

  ‘God bless you, Madame!’ said Juliette huskily.

  Five

  Most of the aspiring artists and the students of language, literature and culture had fallen victim to the seductive somnolence of a hot afternoon. Singly or in small clusters, they lay in chairs on the terrace or sprawled on rugs under the trees, some unashamedly asleep, others nodding over books, all as immobile as figures on a set of The Sleeping Beauty.

  The exceptions were Dora Lavender, Rose Kettle and Dieter Erdle. The former had taken a golf-club to a smooth, level patch of grass a short distance from the house which Philippe Bonard, anxious to cater for his clients’ leisure needs as well as their thirst for learning, had laid out as a green; she had donned a pair of heavy-framed spectacles and was practising putting. Rose and Dieter were watching from the shade of a chestnut tree, chatting in low voices and giggling. From where she stood, Melissa could see them only in profile, but she had a shrewd idea that they were holding hands and that Dora’s apparent indifference to their presence was concealing a mounting irritation.

  ‘Well done!’ called Rose after Dora had sunk six putts in a row.

  ‘Yes, well done indeed!’ echoed Dieter, ostentatiously clapping his hands. ‘Your friend is an impressive player,’ he said to Rose.

  Dora retrieved her ball without a glance in their direction and marched to the far edge of the green.

  ‘She’s a scratch player,’ said Rose, raising her voice slightly, as if anxious to appease her friend. ‘She plays in tournaments, you know. Everyone says her swing is superb.’

  Dieter bent to whisper something in her ear, at which she gave a squeal of laughter.

  Watching Dora, Melissa observed her stiffen and tighten her grip on the putter, her arm muscles clenched below the rolled-up sleeves of her blouse. She took her stance and struck the ball; it sped across the grass like a bullet, struck the rim of the hole and shot out again.

  ‘Bad luck, Dora!’ called Rose.

  ‘Perhaps you hit it a little too hard?’ suggested Dieter.

  As if they were inaudible and invisible, Dora picked up her ball and stalked past them, heading for the car. The two observers exchanged amused glances and then wandered away under the trees. Undoubtedly they were holding hands.

  ‘I’ll bet she’d like him to end up at the foot of the cliff,’ said a voice. Turning, Melissa found Jack standing beside her.

  ‘Or put him there,’ she agreed wryly. ‘She thinks her friend is making a fool of herself and she’s seriously worried about her.’

  ‘I’d say she had every reason to be.’ He spoke softly, with a hint of a West Country burr.

  Dora flung open the boot of the Sierra and thrust the putter into her golf-bag. She closed the lid; when the catch failed to operate, she slammed it a second time with a violence that made several of the slumberers lift their heads. She marched across the courtyard into the house, her eyes stony and her jaw set.

 
; Jack glanced at his watch. ‘Another half an hour before school starts again,’ he observed. ‘Shall we sit down?’

  Melissa hesitated. ‘Well, actually, I was thinking of driving into Anduze,’ she said. ‘I want to visit the Protestant temple.’

  ‘Ah yes, I was forgetting. You’re researching a novel, aren’t you? And I believe you’re a friend of Iris’s?’ There was a studied casualness in his tone that made Melissa prick up her ears.

  ‘We’re next-door neighbours.’

  ‘In Gloucestershire, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m a Somerset man myself.’

  ‘I’d never have guessed!’

  He laughed, a warm, comfortable sound that reminded her of homely, rustic things like sleek cattle and woolly sheep grazing on a West Country hillside. ‘Can’t disguise the accent, can I? Iris spotted it at once.’

  ‘Where is Iris, by the way? I came out here to look for her, but she seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘She said she was going off somewhere to meditate before the afternoon session. I’m sure she needs a bit of time to recharge after giving so much of herself this morning.’

  ‘Oh, Iris swears by her yoga,’ agreed Melissa. ‘Did you have a productive session, by the way?’ she added, thinking that it would be nice to have some favourable comments to pass on to Iris.

  ‘Absolutely splendid!’ Jack’s eyes glowed. ‘Your friend has so much talent and she’s so . . .’ he waved his hands as if trying to snatch words from the air, ‘. . . she has this gift of firing one’s imagination without talking too much. Some tutors just love the sound of their own voices.’

  ‘That must be a relief,’ said Melissa, smiling at this positive tribute to Iris’s minimalist use of language. ‘It sounds as if you’ve made a promising start. By the way, when she reappears, would you mind telling her I’ll be back to pick her up at the end of this afternoon?’

  ‘Of course.’ He appeared delighted at the prospect. ‘You’re staying at the Auberge de la Fontaine, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. And you?’

  ‘The Lion d’Or. Not exactly five star, but the food’s okay and it’s got a pretty terrace bar overlooking the river. Perhaps you and Iris would care to join me there for a drink one evening?’

  ‘That sounds a nice idea. Will you fix it with her?’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure!’ he said warmly and Melissa thought what an attractive smile he had. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you. I hope to see you again soon.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  ‘Iris, you’ve got an admirer,’ murmured Melissa to herself as she got into the car. Much more suitable than your precious Philippe Bonard, too.

  The interior of the Protestant temple at Anduze was light, spacious and blissfully cool. Melissa found its clean, uncluttered lines at once calming and uplifting, and she stood for a few moments just inside the door, absorbing the tranquil atmosphere.

  A number of people were walking quietly to and fro, studying the architecture, referring to guide-books and conversing in low voices. A small party had gathered round an elderly woman who had apparently been showing them round. As Melissa entered, the guide stepped back with outspread hands that seemed to invite her small audience to scatter and enjoy the building at their leisure. Then her eyes fell on Melissa and she came forward to greet her.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame. Welcome to our temple. Would you like to learn something of our history?’ From a plain wooden table spread with literature she picked up a booklet and offered it to Melissa, who took it with some hesitation.

  ‘Actually, I already know quite a bit about it from the guide-books,’ she began. ‘And this morning . . .’

  ‘Ah, the guide-books,’ interrupted the woman with a condescending smile. ‘They tell you only about the big names and the famous dates. This lady has spent many years studying the life of the people who lived in these parts in former times.’

  ‘I learned a great deal from my visit to the museum this morning,’ commented Melissa, glancing at the booklet as she spoke. The name of the author caught her eye. ‘Antoinette Gebrec – is that a common name round here?’

  The woman looked at her curiously. ‘You mean Gebrec? Not so common. Why do you ask?’

  ‘There is a man called Alain Gebrec who works at the Centre Cévenol d’Etudes in Roziac.’

  ‘Alain? But of course, that would be Antoinette’s son!’

  ‘You know the family?’

  ‘I know Antoinette very well. You are a student at the centre, Madame?’

  ‘No, not exactly.’ Once more, Melissa explained her interest in the region.

  ‘But you must visit Antoinette!’ exclaimed the guide. ‘She will love to assist you in your researches. It is a passion of hers, the history of the Camisards. She lives not far from here, in Alès. Let me give you her address and telephone number.’ She rummaged in her handbag, found a pencil and notebook, and began scribbling.

  ‘Are you sure she won’t mind a total stranger calling on her?’ asked Melissa doubtfully as she took the proffered piece of paper.

  ‘But of course not. There is nothing she enjoys more than to talk on her favourite subject. Tell her Gabrielle Delon sent you. You wish to buy her book?’ the woman added hopefully.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Melissa took out a fifty-franc note. ‘And please keep the change as a donation to your temple.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Madame. Excuse me, here come more visitors.’ With a bobbing movement that was almost a curtsey, Madame Delon hurried away.

  ‘Had a good day?’ asked Iris as she settled into the Golf to be driven back to the auberge at the end of the afternoon.

  ‘Very interesting indeed.’ Melissa gave a brief account of her activities but without reference to her conversation with Juliette. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Super.’

  ‘Jack seems a nice man.’

  ‘They’re all nice. Going to be a good week.’ After a pause, Iris added smugly, ‘Philippe’s delighted.’

  ‘So he should be – he’s getting your services for peanuts.’

  In an unguarded moment, Iris had let drop that, while Bonard was paying her expenses, she was receiving no fee to run the course.

  ‘New venture,’ Iris reminded her. ‘Doing what I can to help it off the ground.’

  ‘Philippe doesn’t give me the impression of being exactly hard up,’ retorted Melissa, thinking of the designer suits and the new luxury Peugeot in the garage.

  ‘Capital at risk,’ Iris insisted. ‘Stands to lose a lot if things go wrong.’

  Melissa abandoned this unsatisfactory topic and reverted to her original one. ‘I was chatting to Jack after lunch.’ There was no response. ‘He said something about our having a drink with him one evening.’

  Iris’s expression did not change as she murmured, ‘Who did?’

  ‘Jack, of course. Didn’t he mention it to you?’

  ‘Said something about it.’

  ‘And?’

  Iris yawned, put her hands behind her head and gazed out of the window. ‘Maybe later this week. Too tired this evening.’

  As soon as they were back at the auberge, Iris vanished into their minuscule en suite bathroom. She emerged a couple of minutes later clad in her black leotard, unfolded a blanket and spread it on the floor in the far corner of the bedroom. They had been given a family room, from which Monsieur Gauthier had obligingly removed one of the three single beds in order to provide the space Iris required for her daily yoga session.

  ‘So good of Philippe to organise this for me,’ said Iris, sinking gracefully into a supine position. ‘Went to endless trouble to organise my diet as well.’

  ‘He’s a businessman,’ Melissa pointed out, having heard this eulogy several times already. ‘He knew your name would bring in the customers and . . .’

  ‘Going into relaxation now,’ murmured Iris, closing her eyes and spreading her arms and legs like a starfish.

  ‘Don’t w
orry, I shan’t disturb you. I’ve got notes to write up and Madame Gebrec’s book to read.’

  A couple of hours later, having showered and changed, they went downstairs to dinner. As they passed through the reception area on their way to the restaurant, they caught a glimpse of a dark green car with a German number plate driving away.

  ‘Seen that before,’ commented Iris. ‘Guess who won’t be dining here this evening.’

  The guess proved accurate. Dora appeared late, alone and in obvious ill-humour. The two friends tactfully refrained from enquiring after Rose, but Monsieur Gauthier had no such reservations.

  ‘Your friend, she is not with you?’ he enquired, with a solicitous bob first at Dora and then towards the door. ‘She is not unwell, I hope.’

  ‘She is perfectly well, but she has gone out,’ said Dora in a tone which discouraged further comment. She took the menu, scowled at it as if every dish carried a health warning, chose a couple at random and handed it back. When her food arrived, she appeared to eat without appetite, made little or no response to any attempts at conversation and left the table without taking dessert or coffee.

  ‘Poor Dora, she can’t wait for this week to be over,’ Melissa remarked.

  Iris, tucking into her slice of Tarte Tatin, waved her fork in agreement. ‘Bet she wishes it was the dashing Dieter who’d gone over the cliff!’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘Funny you should say that. Jack made a similar comment earlier on.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘He thinks you’re a great teacher, by the way.’

  ‘That’s good. Perhaps he’ll recommend the course. Philippe wants me to run it again in October.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll charge him a proper fee next time. I’ll bet he can afford it.’ Melissa was becoming more and more irritated at the constant references to Bonard. ‘Just on a point of interest, what’s his main line of business? It must be pretty lucrative to enable him to buy Les Châtaigniers.’

  ‘Wholesale fruit and vegetables.’