Bonard nodded approvingly. ‘I am sure her advice is excellent. Will you be joining us for lunch? I have to instruct Juliette.’
Melissa hesitated. ‘I’ve no idea what time I’ll be back. Perhaps I’d better say no for today, thank you all the same.’
‘There is no need for thanks. My house is at your disposal. If you wish at any time to take a swim in the pool or use the library – it is always quiet, ideal for writing – you are most welcome.’
‘You are very hospitable.’
‘But it is a pleasure to entertain a lady from another country who has such a love of France and of the French language.’ There followed another brief eulogy of his mother-tongue, of its pre-eminence in the civilised world and of the importance of preserving its purity, during which Melissa felt her smile glazing over. ‘And of course,’ he finished, reverting to his normal voice, ‘as you are such a close friend of dear Iris . . .’
‘Yes, Iris is a very dear friend of mine.’ Involuntarily, Melissa spoke with an emphasis that took her by surprise. She sensed that Bonard was aware of it; although his smile did not waver, his eyes registered in quick succession a question, a realisation and a reassurance.
‘Believe me, I too value her friendship,’ he said with obvious sincerity. ‘I value it most highly.’ He stood back and gave a little bow. ‘It is always a pleasure to talk to you, but I must not detain you. I wish you a profitable day.’
It was as if a subliminal message had passed between them; as if she had said aloud, ‘Look, I understand how things are between you and Alain Gebrec, but Iris doesn’t seem to and I don’t want her upset,’ and as if he had responded, ‘Do not worry, I will not say or do anything to hurt her.’ She set off for Alès feeling comforted.
In the municipal library, after consultation with an assistant, Melissa settled at a table in a quiet corner with two or three of the books that Antoinette Gebrec had recommended. She soon became absorbed, oblivious to the passage of time, and was startled when she was politely informed that the doors would shortly be closed for the midday break. She gathered her pages of notes and went out into the sunlit streets. Every clock in the city seemed to be booming the hour.
Crossing the Place Henri Barbusse, Melissa went in search of somewhere to eat. She was studying the menu outside a restaurant when someone called her name. Looking round, she saw Madame Gebrec waving from the other side of the narrow street. Nimbly dodging cars, vans and packs of youngsters on bicycles streaming homewards for their midday meal, the Frenchwoman skipped across and shook Melissa energetically by the hand.
‘You seek lunch?’ she said in English. ‘Bah, do not go there! The cooking, it is execrable. Come, I show you.’ She steered Melissa round a corner, along a narrow passage and through a net-curtained door. In no time they were installed at a table by the window and being attended by a stately woman with an enormous bosom and a monument of granite-coloured hair. She was evidently an old acquaintance of Madame Gebrec, who addressed her as Huguette and made solicitous enquiries about her varicose veins before the two of them began a lively discussion of the menu. Eventually, and after due consultation with Melissa, the plat du jour of lamb spiced with juniper was agreed upon and a bottle of mineral water requested, whereupon Huguette moved majestically towards the kitchen.
‘Always I eat here when I have business in town,’ Madame Gebrec explained. ‘The chef is the husband of Huguette. His cooking is superb.’ She lowered her voice and leaned towards Melissa. ‘Madame Craig, I am so happy to have this opportunity to speak to you.’
‘I’m happy to see you, too. I’ve just been in the library, studying some of the books you recommended. I’m so grateful for your help.’
‘But it is nothing. It is a pleasure to be of service.’ Madame Gebrec’s face became serious; she took a sip of water, put down her glass and fiddled with the stem as if she had something on her mind. After a moment, she said, ‘I wish to apologise, Madame, for Alain’s rudeness to you yesterday. Oh, yes, I am sure he was most impolite,’ she hurried on as Melissa murmured a conventional disclaimer. ‘He telephoned to tell me about it . . . he was very angry when he saw you with that book and I could tell that he had said things he should not have said.’
‘Look, it doesn’t matter . . .’
‘I ask you to believe that in normal circumstances he would not behave like that, but he is still not quite himself . . . the death of his friend, you know . . .’
‘Please,’ Melissa urged, ‘there’s no need to say any more,’ but Madame Gebrec continued as if she had not spoken.
‘The Occupation . . . it was a bitter time for us all . . . even though Alain was not born until shortly before the Liberation, he did not escape unscarred. The times that followed, they were almost as bad . . . and as he grew older, he became aware of the deep wounds his mother had suffered. Anything that causes me distress . . .’ Her voice trembled and almost broke.
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ said Melissa. ‘I quite understand.’
Madame Gebrec shook her head. ‘But no, Madame, it is impossible that you understand. You have not known, you could not know, what it was like to live under the Occupation. One was always afraid, there were spies everywhere and one could never be sure who were one’s friends. Not everyone was patriote, and when it was finished and the enemy had left our soil, there were those who did not speak the truth about what happened.’
‘I can well believe that,’ said Melissa.
Madame Gebrec gazed earnestly at her across the table. Her dark eyes, which seemed almost too large for her small features, held an expression of great sadness. She hesitated for a moment before asking in a low voice: ‘The book you bought yesterday – you have read it?’
Melissa shook her head. ‘I’ve hardly had time to open it yet. When I do get round to reading it, I’ll remember what you’ve been saying.’ She was burning with curiosity and would have liked to question Madame Gebrec, but it was obvious that to do so would arouse painful memories.
There was an awkward silence, relieved by the arrival of Huguette with their food. She laid the plates before them, wished them ‘Bon appétit’, clasped her hands and stood in an attitude of expectation, awaiting their comments.
‘It’s delicious,’ Melissa assured her after the first mouthful.
‘Your husband is a true artist of the kitchen,’ declared Madame Gebrec and Huguette withdrew, beaming.
‘Speaking of artists,’ said Melissa, ‘I think I mentioned that my friend is a well-known painter and textile designer.’
‘Yes, indeed. How is it going with her course?’
‘Very well, I think. I hear very favourable reports from her students. I wonder,’ Melissa hesitated, unsure of how her request would be received, ‘Iris is always interested in the work of little-known artists and I believe . . . Madame Delon mentioned that the person who painted that view of the Porte des Cévennes, the one hanging in your salon, is a friend of yours?’
Once again the great eyes grew sombre, but this time the sorrow was mingled with love and pride.
‘He was, indeed, a very dear friend,’ she murmured. ‘Alas, since many years he is no longer with us.’
‘Have you any more of his work?’
‘Just a few canvases. They are not for sale,’ she added sharply and Melissa was at pains to reassure her.
‘No . . . no, I don’t want to buy them . . . it was just . . . that is, would it be possible for us to see them?’
‘But of course – I should be delighted! When would you like to come? They are best seen in daylight, naturally.’
‘Perhaps one afternoon, after the class is finished?’
‘Why not? Let us say tomorrow? You will take an apéritif with me, no?’
It was an occasion to look forward to. Neither could have foreseen the circumstances under which it would take place.
Ten
After parting from Madame Gebrec, Melissa returned to the library with the intention of working there for the rest of the
afternoon, but time and again she found her mind straying from the accounts of former religious wars and the acts of unbelievable cruelty committed by both sides to the more recent clash of ideologies which, it seemed to her, differed from the old in little but the relative sophistication of the weaponry. Even the deeds of valour, so proudly recorded, only added to her depression as she reminded herself that each was committed in response to yet one more example of man’s inhumanity to man. After an hour or so, wearied – as the combatants themselves had at last become – by the futility of it all, she abandoned her task and drove back to Roziac.
The afternoon was hot and still. Remembering Philippe Bonard’s invitation to use the pool whenever she wished, she decided to call in at the Auberge de la Fontaine and pick up her swimming costume. She calculated that there would be time for a quick dip before afternoon tea, which Juliette normally served at a quarter to four.
She arrived at Les Châtaigniers shortly before half-past three, expecting to find the garden and the pool deserted. Instead, several members of Bonard’s class, including Rose, Daphne and Eric, were already in the water; others were sitting on the terrace making notes. Presumably, after carrying out their assignments, they had been returning at irregular intervals and were now preparing their reports for the final session of the afternoon. There was no sign of Bonard or his assistant.
The water was cool and refreshing; Melissa found it a relief to stretch and exercise her limbs after the hours spent poring over books. After swimming a few lengths of the pool, she turned and floated on her back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her half-submerged body, listening to the splashing of the other swimmers, their laughing voices, the harsh cries of magpies in the nearby forest, the occasional insect droning past. The vague sense of depression that had settled over her in the library began to slip away. She decided that she had done enough research; it was time to start detailed plotting of her novel.
Somebody called, ‘Tea’s ready,’ and the bathers scrambled out of the water and began drying themselves. Rose picked up a tube of sun-cream and held it out to Daphne.
‘Will you do my back for me?’ she asked.
‘Certainly.’ Daphne took the tube, squeezed a white worm of cream on to Rose’s shoulders and began spreading it with her large, plump hands.
The contrast between the two as they stood one behind the other struck Melissa as comical. They’re like the ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures in an advertisement for a slimming programme, she thought. Daphne’s huge bosom and vast posterior looked as if they were about to burst from her too-tight black costume; Rose, small-boned and slender, looked remarkably young and pretty in an aquamarine bikini that suited her fair colouring. Melissa, remembering the events of the previous evening, was beginning to believe that it was not impossible for Dieter Erdle to be genuinely attracted to her. She wondered idly why Rose had not asked him to apply the sun-cream and then realised that he was not among the swimmers. Perhaps he had not yet returned from his interview.
Her reflections were interrupted by Dora, whom she had vaguely noticed rummaging in the boot of their car when she arrived and who now came striding towards them.
‘Rose, my nine iron is missing,’ she said. Receiving nothing but a blank look, she raised her voice and repeated impatiently, ‘My nine iron, I can’t find it.’
‘I’m not deaf,’ said Rose pettishly.
‘Well, have you taken it?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Rose took her tube of cream from Daphne and began anointing her arms and legs. ‘Why do you suppose I’d do that? You must have left it at home.’
‘I tell you I didn’t.’
At that moment, the art group emerged and headed for the tea-table. Iris spotted Melissa and came straight across to her.
‘Has Gebrec come back yet? Have you seen Philippe?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t seen either of them but I’ve only been back a little while,’ replied Melissa. ‘Is there a problem?’ she added, seeing the anxiety in her friend’s face.
‘Gebrec’s taken off.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Supposed to pick us up at lunchtime and never turned up. Philippe’s very worried.’
‘Hasn’t he any idea where he’s gone?’
‘Seems not. He didn’t take his car or the mini-bus.’
‘There’s Philippe now.’
Bonard had just emerged on to the terrace. It was evident from his preoccupied expression and the abstracted way he ran his fingers through his thatch of silver hair that Gebrec had still not returned. The news that something was amiss quickly spread to the rest of the group, who gathered round him to hear the latest developments.
‘I am most concerned,’ he was saying in French as Iris and Melissa joined them. ‘He was in a somewhat distressed state when he came to see me after taking Iris and her students to the Parc de Prafance.’
‘He seemed all right to me,’ commented Chrissie, after Melissa had interpreted. ‘Did you notice anything, Merv?’
‘Mmm . . . he seemed a bit quiet,’ said Mervyn. ‘I wouldn’t have said distressed . . . more preoccupied. He certainly didn’t have much to say for himself.’
‘He had a slanging match with Fernand before we set off,’ said Jack. ‘Perhaps that upset him?’
‘Oh, that is nothing extraordinary.’ Bonard’s shoulders lifted dismissively. ‘They have many differences. Fernand was employed by the previous owner and does not always see eye to eye with Alain on the way the estate should be managed, but no . . .’
‘So what do you suppose it was?’ asked Chrissie.
‘He would not tell me. We had some business to discuss, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere. I asked if there was anything wrong and he said “No,” but I could tell that he was keeping something back. So I asked him again, asked if I could help, and he became very agitated. He said, “No one can help”, and rushed out of the room. I have not seen him since.’
‘Is he in his room, perhaps?’ suggested Mervyn.
‘He is not in the house. I have searched thoroughly.’
There was a pause, during which Dora was heard to mutter, ‘A lot of fuss about nothing. Why do the French have to make such a drama out of everything?’ In the uncomfortable silence that followed, while the others were trying to think of something tactful to say, the sound of a car pulling into the courtyard sounded unnaturally loud. A door slammed, footsteps approached, and Dieter Erdle walked through the archway on to the terrace.
His arrival seemed to break a spell. The group fragmented and re-formed in twos and threes, speculating on possible reasons for Gebrec’s disappearance. Rose went scuttling off to intercept Dieter; she grabbed him by the hand and drew him towards the tea-table, her bird-like voice rising above the general chatter as she told him what had happened.
Hearing what sounded like a muttered exclamation of fury at her elbow, Melissa looked around and saw Dora turn on her heel and march off into the orchard, where she stopped under an apple tree and stared up into the branches as if inspecting its heavy crop of fruit. Even at that distance, her stance indicated suppressed rage and frustration.
The men of the party were discussing the situation and it was plain that, unlike Dora, they were taking it seriously. Melissa was intrigued to notice that Jack Hammond seemed to have taken charge, with Dieter Erdle as his lieutenant. Together with Iris and several others, she moved closer to listen.
‘Wherever he went, he was on foot,’ said Jack. ‘His car, Philippe’s Peugeot and the 2CV that Fernand uses are all in their usual places. We don’t even know which direction he took.’
‘Didn’t anyone at all see him go out?’ asked Mervyn. ‘Fernand or Juliette, for example?’
‘Apparently Fernand was out too. He went to the supermarket to do some shopping for Juliette. She doesn’t know anything either.’
‘What about Philippe’s secretary?’ asked Dieter.
‘Never thought to ask. I don’t think I’ve ever set eyes on her,
’ said Jack.
‘Marie-Claire,’ Dieter explained. ‘She works in a cubbyhole next to his office in the turret. She hardly ever shows her face downstairs.’
‘Has Philippe talked to her about Gebrec’s disappearance?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would you care to ask him?’
‘Sure.’ Dieter went off and returned a few minutes later with the information that Marie-Claire never came in on a Wednesday because her children’s school was closed on that day.
‘So she’s no help,’ said Jack. ‘Wasn’t anyone here at all, besides Philippe and Juliette?’
‘It seems not.’
‘So, what do we do?’ asked Mervyn.
‘If Gebrec was upset or worried about something and just wanted to be alone to think things over,’ said Jack, ‘he might have gone up to the belvedere, or down by the river where we went yesterday to do our painting.’
‘You’d think he’d be back by now,’ said Mervyn.
‘Unless he’s had an accident or been taken ill.’
‘D’you think we should form a search party?’
‘I’ve just had a dreadful thought,’ said Chrissie, her eyes wide with foreboding and an ominous throb in her voice which seemed for once totally natural. ‘Supposing he’s ill . . . really ill, I mean, with something awful . . . something incurable?’ She slipped her hand into Mervyn’s and moved closer to him, as if for protection against some unnamed horror. ‘Suppose he felt he couldn’t face it and . . .’
The temperature seemed to fall several degrees as the implication sank in.
‘I think,’ said Jack, ‘we’d better get on and search.’ Everyone looked at him, waiting for instructions. ‘Dieter, will you come with me? We’ll go up to the belvedere. Mervyn, I suggest you, Eric and the rest of the men go down to the river. Split into two parties when you get there and look a reasonable distance in both directions. Perhaps the ladies could check the gardens and the outhouses, although I doubt if you’ll find him there.’
Murder on the Clifftops Page 11
