Murder on the Clifftops

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘You almost make me wish I had enrolled on your course,’ said Melissa, with a certain lack of sincerity. Patriotism was all very well, but she felt this was going over the top. When mounted on his hobby-horse, Philippe Bonard had the makings of a thundering bore.

  ‘It would have been a privilege to have you as a student . . . ah, but your French is already of so excellent a quality . . . and you are occupied with your researches. Have you had a profitable day?’

  ‘Very, thank you,’ she said, wondering what his reaction would be if he knew how she had spent the past hour. ‘By the way, you mentioned a local historian. Would that by chance be Antoinette Gebrec, Alain’s mother?’

  ‘But yes! She is one of several on whose services I may call from time to time. You know her?’

  ‘I met her today. She has very kindly been helping me with my research.’

  ‘But that is so delightful! Alain will be enchanted when he hears.’ He glanced round as the throb of a diesel engine sounded in the yard. ‘There he comes now. He went to fetch Iris and her class in the minibus.’

  ‘He seems to have been quite badly affected by the tragedy,’ said Melissa. ‘Was Wolfgang Klein a close friend?’

  Bonard waved a dismissive hand. ‘They were drinking companions, that is all. But Alain, he is so sensitive, he has taken the affair to heart. He insisted on being the one to break the news to the young man’s family, despite his own distress.’ He spoke almost apologetically, like a father excusing the whims of a favourite child. He got to his feet. ‘Will you kindly excuse me for a moment? I must go and enquire if the artists have had a successful afternoon.’

  He went to meet them as they scrambled from the bus, hand extended in welcome, greeting them individually by name and exchanging a few words with each one. He spent a short time in conversation with Iris, who looked at him in a way that made Melissa want to shake her. Eventually she managed to catch her friend’s eye; Iris waved and mouthed, ‘Five minutes,’ before following the others into the house. Gebrec returned from putting the bus away and Bonard took him by the arm and led him to the terrace.

  ‘Your charming mother has been helping Melissa with her researches,’ he said. ‘Is not that delightful?’

  ‘Really?’ Gebrec smiled politely, but Melissa had the impression that the announcement gave him no particular pleasure. ‘I did not know you were acquainted with Maman.’

  Briefly, Melissa explained how the meeting had come about. ‘She very kindly invited me to lunch and she has given me a lot of useful information.’

  ‘I am pleased to hear it.’ Again, the flat tone that seemed to contradict his words. His eye fell on the book on her lap and his expression darkened. ‘She did not recommend that!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘No, I found it for myself,’ she said, trying not to show her irritation. Mentally, she was demanding: who do you people think you are? First your mother, now you, trying to dictate what I should read. Aloud, she said: ‘I have your mother’s book on the Camisards as well, of course – that is the period that interests me particularly – but I want to learn about more recent history as well.’

  ‘Maman is writing an account of that period. It will be much better than this . . . rubbish!’

  ‘I’m sure your mother’s book will be excellent,’ said Melissa crisply. ‘When it is published, I shall order a copy. It will be interesting to make comparisons.’

  Gebrec was not placated. ‘My advice to you is not to waste your time reading that one,’ he said rudely.

  ‘Alain! Melissa will make her own decision about what she will read.’ The mild reproach in Bonard’s tone did not match the anger in his eyes. Gebrec stared coldly back at him and Melissa sensed that they were on the verge of a confrontation, but Bonard’s attention was diverted by the approach of the members of his class, who had begun to emerge from the house. At their head was Dieter Erdle; Melissa guessed from the gleam of amusement in his eye that he had overheard the rather heated exchange.

  ‘I see you have been studying local history, Melissa,’ he observed, indicating the book. ‘It is a fascinating subject, is it not?’

  He had not asked if he might use her first name, but it seemed to be the practice here and she had no reason to object. ‘It certainly is,’ she agreed. ‘Rose tells me it is one of your interests.’

  ‘That is so. I have learned many things I did not know about events in this region.’ The glance he directed at Gebrec held a hint of malice and was greeted with an angry frown. ‘Perhaps we can have a talk some time?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ It might be interesting; he was obviously intelligent and well-educated, and the fact that both Dora and Iris had written him off as a fortune-hunter caused her no particular misgivings.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he suggested. ‘We missed you at lunch today . . . we understood you might be joining us.’

  ‘Philippe very kindly gave me an open invitation, but today I was in Alès, as the guest of Alain’s mother.’ She half-turned towards Gebrec, who was still standing beside her, glowering.

  ‘Ah, yes, the famous local historian. But that is not one of her works, I think.’ Erdle indicated the book that had caused the recent controversy, still clutched in Melissa’s hand; now, he was smiling, openly taunting Gebrec. ‘You’ll find that interesting reading, Melissa. There is one passage in particular . . . may I?’

  He reached out for the book, but before Melissa could give it to him, Gebrec snatched it from her.

  ‘It is rubbish, I tell you!’ He flung the book to the ground and stormed back towards the house, leaving Melissa open-mouthed.

  ‘Tut-tut! Böse Junge!’ murmured Erdle with undisguised glee. He retrieved the book and handed it back to her. ‘We will talk more tomorrow. Your friend awaits you, I think,’ he added, nodding towards the courtyard where Iris was standing beside Melissa’s car, and speaking for the first time in faultless English instead of French.

  ‘You’re quite a linguist,’ she said.

  ‘It is necessary for business purposes that I speak the major languages of Europe. I have tried to persuade our excitable friend that he should do the same.’ His smile was contemptuous. ‘Until tomorrow!’

  Eight

  ‘So what have you been doing today?’ asked Iris.

  Melissa fastened her safety belt and reached for the ignition. ‘Having lunch with Madame Gebrec.’ She backed the Golf round and headed for the exit. Jack Hammond, who was walking towards his car, smiled and raised a hand in greeting as they passed. ‘How’s he getting on?’ she asked.

  ‘Very well. A real nature-lover . . . has an original eye.’ After a pause, Iris added casually, ‘Invited us both for a drink after dinner.’

  ‘That’s nice. Did you accept?’

  ‘Didn’t see why not. You seemed all for it. What’s Madame Gebrec like?’

  ‘Absolutely charming, bubbling over with enthusiasm.’

  Iris grunted. ‘More than you can say for her son.’

  ‘He is a down-beat sort of character, isn’t he?’

  ‘Perhaps he takes after his father. Did you meet him too?’

  ‘Hardly. He was killed in the war.’

  Iris tilted her head back and yawned. ‘Learn anything useful from Mum?’

  ‘Oh yes, she’s very clued up about the Camisards. She’s writing another book, by the way, about the Occupation.’ Melissa gave a chuckle. ‘I’d unwittingly bought one by a rival historian and you should have seen the way she turned her nose up at it. Her son reacted even more strongly – he was downright rude.’

  ‘Professional jealousy, I suppose.’

  ‘I guess so. I got the impression that there’s one bit they particularly object to. Dieter Erdle must have read it – he seems to know what it is.’

  ‘Blowing the gaff about a black marketeer in the family?’ suggested Iris with a mischievous grin.

  ‘That’s a thought. I’ve only glanced through the book, but it contains a lot of personal recollections. Maybe some people took the chance of
paying off old scores.’

  ‘Not easy after so long to guarantee accuracy. Where is it anyway?’

  ‘The book? In the glove compartment.’ They had reached the auberge; Melissa turned into the car park and switched off the engine.

  Iris rummaged. ‘Your camera’s here as well. Want it?’

  ‘Might as well. The view from our balcony’s worth a shot.’

  They went up to their room. Melissa kicked off her shoes, dumped her handbag on the floor, flopped on her bed and closed her eyes. It had been quite a day.

  Iris was moving around, opening and closing drawers. ‘Hullo, what happened to this?’ she demanded suddenly.

  Melissa opened her eyes. ‘What happened to what?’

  ‘Your camera case.’ Iris held it in front of her nose, showing the scratches and scuff marks it had collected during the nerve-racking passage to Fernand’s cave. The memory made her heart skip a beat.

  ‘I . . . I must have dropped it,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Now pull the other one! You’ve been up to something. And how did you get them so filthy?’ Like a heat-seeking missile, Iris’s gaze homed on the knees of Melissa’s blue cotton slacks and the smudges of grey dust which had resisted her hasty brushing. ‘Taken up bird-watching?’

  ‘I went up towards the belvedere to take some pictures, that’s all. I . . . tripped on a rock and fell over.’ She wasn’t in the habit of lying to Iris and knew she wasn’t making a particularly good job of it.

  Iris cocked a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Saw the nutter, didn’t you?’

  ‘If you mean Fernand, he was working up there, yes. He didn’t try to rape me, if that’s what’s worrying you!’

  Iris ignored the feeble attempt at humour. ‘You promised you’d stay away from him,’ she scolded.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Iris, stop banging on about Fernand. We had a very interesting chat and he was as normal as could be. There’s no harm in him at all.’

  ‘That’s what you think. Never know what goes on in a nutter’s mind. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Iris yanked her leotard from a drawer and headed for the bathroom. ‘Going to get changed and do my yoga.’

  ‘I’ll have a shower when you’ve finished in there.’

  With the noise of the water splashing round her head and drumming into the bath, Melissa found herself reliving the time she had spent with Fernand in that dark, echoing cavern. Despite her confident assertion, she knew that Iris had a point. It was not only physical wounds that left scars; damage to the mind could throb and fester in secret over many years, and some flash of memory could trigger unexpected, possibly violent reactions.

  Yet Fernand had spoken openly of the war and of his brother’s death without showing a trace of rancour or a desire for revenge. She recalled, with a lump in her throat, the slow tears gathering, glistening in the light of the lantern as they slid down the furrows in his cheeks. There had been suffering, but no hatred, in those eyes.

  Just the same, she had experienced an uneasy moment when he spoke of the unnamed traitor who had brought about his brother’s death. There was no doubt that the tragedy was as fresh in his mind as the day it had happened. So, what if Wolfgang Klein’s innocent enquiries about hidden caves and grottoes had churned up bitter memories of accounts still unsettled? Hadn’t Monsieur Gauthier hinted as much, spoken of how Fernand was always ‘looking over his shoulder for Germans’? And what about Dieter Erdle – could he possibly also represent a threat in the mind of someone suffering that kind of delusion? Should she forget her promise to Juliette and tell Hassan what she knew?

  ‘No!’ She spoke the word aloud as she turned off the water and began rubbing herself furiously with a towel. Fernand had witnessed death, but he was not a violent man. She recalled his sister’s words: ‘Even in our childish games, he would never be the one to take a life.’ If she were to break her word, the big gendarme would go rushing off to his commandant with his ‘fresh evidence’, demanding to be allowed to treat Klein’s death as murder; he would harass and bully brother and sister, tearing open wounds that at best were only half-healed, forcing them to relive the pain and terror of the past.

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ she muttered as she plugged in her hair-dryer. ‘Fernand might have the odd screw loose, but I’d swear he’d never hurt anyone.’

  At dinner that evening, Rose and Dora were full of their ‘projects’ and the appointments arranged for the following morning. It was obvious that Bonard had been to considerable trouble to arrange for the members of his class to meet people with similar interests to their own. Dora had asked about sporting facilities in the region and been promised an interview with the manager of a leisure complex in Alès; Rose, who belonged to an amateur drama group in Carshalton, was to meet the director of a forthcoming performance of ‘son et lumière’ whose office was in Anduze. Since they would be going in different directions and at different times, Dora would use their car and another member of the group would give Rose a lift.

  ‘It all sounds highly organised,’ said Melissa, piling whipped cream on her fromage blanc and pretending not to hear Iris’s scathing comments about cholesterol. It had been a good dinner and the réserve maison had sent pleasant messages around her system, signifying that after the adventures of the day, all was now well.

  ‘Oh, it is,’ agreed Dora. ‘I must say, Philippe Bonard has some excellent ideas. He deserves to make a success of his school.’

  ‘Glad you think so.’ Iris glowed as if she had received a personal compliment.

  ‘I imagine Dieter Erdle is doing some sort of history project?’ said Melissa unthinkingly between mouthfuls.

  Dora stiffened and made no comment, but Rose reacted with enthusiasm. ‘No, actually, he’s got a meeting with the manager of some factory or other. He’s got to polish up his business French for his job, you know. History is just a hobby for him.’

  ‘Yes, you told me. As a matter of fact, I was talking to him briefly this afternoon and we agreed we’d have a chat some time. Alain Gebrec seemed less than enthusiastic, though.’

  ‘Why was that, do you think?’

  ‘Some disagreement as to whose version of something or other is the authentic one. Alain was getting quite hot under the collar and Dieter seemed to be winding him up on purpose.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.’ Rose was quick to defend her young admirer.

  Dora sniffed disdainfully. ‘I’m quite sure he did. He’s that sort of person.’ Rose flushed with annoyance and seemed about to make a sharp retort.

  ‘We have to go,’ said Iris, getting to her feet. ‘Come on, Melissa, I told Jack half-past eight and it’s nearly that already.’

  ‘Made a hash of that, didn’t I?’ said Melissa when they got outside.

  ‘You did give things a bit of a stir,’ Iris agreed. ‘Shouldn’t let it worry you. They’ve probably had words before now.’

  ‘I suspect they’ll be having a few more.’

  ‘More than likely.’

  After the business of the day and the more important business of the evening meal, the inhabitants of Roziac were enjoying a few hours of leisure in the open air. On their way to the Lion d’Or, where they were to meet Jack, Iris and Melissa passed old women knitting and gossiping in doorways or leaning out of windows, young women sauntering along with babies in perambulators, and leather-clad youths astride shiny motorbikes parked at the kerbside while they chatted up their mini-skirted girls.

  In the central square a game of boules was in progress under the critical gaze of a group of shirt-sleeved men in baggy trousers, cropped heads enveloped in the pungent smoke from their Gauloises, glasses clutched in brawny fists. In between swigs they expressed approval or disparagement of the play with drawn-out exclamations of ‘Ooooh!’ and ‘Aaaah!’ and – from those whose hands were not otherwise encumbered – the occasional burst of applause. Moths fluttered in the light of lamps hanging from the trees as if dancing to the soft, rhythmic jingle of the cica
das.

  ‘Picturesque!’ commented Iris. ‘Unspoilt, too. Not like the Côte d’Azur.’

  ‘It’s a lot colder than the Côte d’Azur in winter,’ Melissa reminded her as they strolled on.

  On the terrace of the Lion d’Or, Jack was sitting alone at one of the round white tables, a spare chair tilted forward on either side of him. When he spied his guests, he jumped to his feet and called a greeting, straightening the chairs and holding them one after the other to steady them on the uneven gravel while they sat down. Melissa had the distinct impression that he held Iris’s chair for a fraction longer than her own.

  He asked what they would like to drink and they asked for coffee, declining his offer of liqueurs. They sat sipping the strong, dark brew and chatted idly about nothing in particular, enjoying the warm velvety air, the star-dusted turquoise sky slowly changing to amethyst and the heady-sweet scent from a clump of yellow broom. Immediately below the terrace was the Mauzère, wider and deeper here than at Les Châtaigniers and flowing less swiftly. A flotilla of ducks paddled past, their wakes forming arrowheads on the darkening surface of the water.

  ‘How’s that for one of “Nature’s Designs”?’ suggested Jack.

  Iris gave a nod of approval. ‘Funny you should say that. Thought I might make the next course “Patterns of Light and Shade”.’

  ‘You’re giving another course?’ Jack leaned forward, his eyes alive with interest. ‘When?’

  ‘Not sure. Philippe mentioned October, but it’s not definite. Would you come?’