Murder on the Clifftops

by Betty Rowlands

  The kitchen door stood open and on impulse she went in. She found Juliette bending over an ironing-board, busy with sponge and pressing-cloth. Behind her, on the buffet, was a tray already loaded with cups and saucers for the mid-morning coffee.

  ‘Bonjour, Juliette,’ said Melissa. ‘Do you need any help?’

  Juliette lowered the iron on to a pair of trousers laid out on the ironing-board, producing a hissing cloud of steam through which she stared solemnly at Melissa. In contrast to her outburst of yesterday, her manner was entirely composed.

  ‘Thank you, no, Madame,’ she replied. ‘Everything is prepared. Will you take lunch here today?’

  ‘Yes, if it’s no trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all.’

  ‘I have just been speaking to Officer Hassan. He confirms that Monsieur Gebrec’s death was suicide.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Juliette finished her task, put the trousers on a wooden hanger, hooked it over the back of a chair and unplugged the iron. It was obvious that she had no wish to discuss the opinions of Officer Hassan.

  ‘So there is no need for you to concern yourself on your brother’s behalf.’

  ‘Quite so, Madame.’

  There seemed nothing else to be said, and Melissa went out of the room and upstairs to the secretary’s office, where, in response to her request to use the phone, Marie-Claire grudgingly pushed the instrument across her desk. ‘Kindly be brief, I have a number of calls to make,’ she said sourly.

  ‘I shall be no longer than necessary,’ said Melissa. Anxiety made her speak more sharply than she had intended; she was not looking forward to telling Madame Gebrec just why Officer Hassan was about to pay her another visit and it was a relief when Madame Delon answered her call.

  ‘I’m afraid what he has to say will cause considerable distress,’ she said, after explaining her reason for telephoning.

  ‘What could be more distressing than the death of her son?’ Madame Delon wanted to know.

  Conscious that Marie-Claire was listening to every word, Melissa hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘It is believed that he took his own life.’

  Not a muscle moved on the secretary’s pallid face. Perhaps she already knew. On the other end of the line there was a shocked gasp.

  ‘But this is dreadful news! Antoinette will be in despair,’ whispered Madame Delon. ‘Why do they think that?’

  ‘I cannot go into details. Officer Hassan will explain. I just want to be sure that your friend is prepared.’

  ‘That is very considerate of you, Madame. Will you come and see her soon? She is in great need of comfort.’

  ‘I’ll come whenever you like. I shall be here at Les Châtaigniers this morning . . .’

  ‘Perhaps I may call you there?’

  ‘Please do. Goodbye.’ Melissa put down the receiver. ‘Thanks for the use of the phone. I’ll be in the library for the next hour or so, if there should be a message for me.’

  The secretary gave no sign of having heard. She reached across the desk, grabbed the instrument and began tapping out a number with the angry, impatient air of someone who has been kept waiting for an unacceptably long time. With a shrug, Melissa left the office, fetched notebooks and a writing-pad from her car, and tried to settle down to work.

  At half-past ten, the sound of voices below the library window indicated that the first lesson of the day was over and that coffee was about to be served. She went down and found Philippe Bonard with his students on the terrace. The hand that he gave her in greeting was ice-cold and his expression grave, but his appearance was as immaculate as ever and his bearing composed and dignified.

  ‘Good morning, Melissa. May I pour you some coffee? We have been discussing The Outsider by Camus. You have read it, no doubt?’

  ‘I studied his work at university,’ she replied, thinking that the story of a man condemned to death for murder after failing to show proper grief at his mother’s funeral was not the happiest choice in the present circumstances. Yet, judging by the earnest discussions going on around her, the melancholy theme seemed to have had the effect of switching everyone’s thoughts away from the actual tragedy that had happened in their midst. The quality of the French was improving too, she noted with interest, remembering how often Iris had praised Philippe Bonard’s skill as a teacher.

  Dieter was deep in conversation with Eric and Daphne, and Rose was talking to Janey and Sue. Only Dora stood aloof, silent and inscrutable. Melissa wondered what was passing though her mind and whether she and Rose had resolved their differences.

  A sulky-looking Marie-Claire appeared and grudgingly informed Melissa that there was a telephone call for her. Madame Delon was on the line.

  ‘Please, could you come to see Antoinette as soon as possible?’ she pleaded. ‘She is in great distress and needs your help.’

  ‘My help? What kind of help?’

  ‘She will explain, Madame. When can you come?’

  ‘I’ll leave in a few minutes and be with you in about half an hour. Tell Madame Gebrec I will do whatever I can.’

  Although what that could possibly be, I have no idea, Melissa thought to herself as she put down the phone.

  Melissa was prepared for signs of strain and grief, but the change in Antoinette Gebrec’s appearance came as a shock. Everything about her seemed to have shrunk except her eyes, which were huge, inky pools that dwarfed her small features. In twenty-four hours she had aged ten years.

  The moment Melissa entered the house, she clutched at her with both hands. ‘Madame Craig, please help me! You must help me!’ she begged in a voice cracking with grief and fatigue.

  Melissa put an arm round her and, at a sign from Madame Delon, led her into the salon, pushed her gently on to a couch and sat down beside her.

  ‘Yes, of course I will help you if I can,’ she promised. ‘Tell me what you want me to do.’

  ‘You know what they are saying . . . that Alain killed himself?’

  ‘Yes, Officer Hassan told me.’

  ‘It is not true!’ The small hands on Melissa’s arm tightened their grip. ‘Never, never would he do such a thing!’

  ‘I can understand how you must feel,’ said Melissa, thinking of Simon and wondering how she herself would feel on learning such terrible news, whether she could bear it, how she would cope. ‘I am the mother of a son myself,’ she went on. ‘The thought that he had come to that state of despair would break my heart.’

  ‘Do you not hear what I am saying? It is not true, I tell you! Alain did not take his own life, someone murdered him!’ She released Melissa’s arm and began beating with her fists on her lap.

  Melissa took hold of the flailing hands and held them still. ‘Please, calm yourself,’ she begged with an anxious glance at Madame Delon, who responded with a grave nod.

  ‘I share my friend’s doubts,’ she said. ‘I have known Alain all his life and I find it impossible to believe that he would commit suicide. He had too much to live for.’

  ‘Have you any idea who would want to kill him, and why?’

  Madame Gebrec raised her head and looked straight at Melissa. The intensity of her gaze was almost hypnotic. ‘That is what I ask you to find out, Madame,’ she whispered.

  ‘Me?’ said Melissa in alarm and astonishment. ‘Why me? Surely, if you have serious reasons for doubting the police conclusions, you should approach them.’

  ‘Reasons? Does a mother need reasons? I know my son and I tell you, Madame, that he did not kill himself.’

  ‘Then, perhaps it was an accident?’

  ‘Accident? Bah!’ Madame Gebrec flung her arms in the air. ‘He knew every inch of that path, and how dangerous the cliff was in places. It was on his recommendation that the guardrail was rebuilt, and he constantly reminded everyone visiting the belvedere of the hazard.’

  Melissa shifted in her seat and looked down at her hands. ‘Madame Gebrec,’ she said hesitantly, ‘you know, of course, the reason why the police believe Alain killed himself?’

>   ‘Grief over the loss of his friend? Yes, I know.’ The small, mobile mouth trembled slightly. ‘Oh, I do not deny that my son was homosexual, nor that he and Wolfgang Klein were lovers. Alain was greatly distressed by his death, but,’ she hesitated for a moment before continuing, ‘he would have got over it in time. Never, never would he consider such an event so insupportable as to . . .’ Her voice tailed off; it was her turn to appear uncomfortable.

  ‘What she means,’ interposed Madame Delon, ‘is that Alain had a hard, one could almost say, a ruthless side to his nature – oh yes, he did!’ she insisted as her friend was about to protest. ‘He was a good son to his mother and generous and loving to his . . . companions,’ the word was chosen with obvious care and uttered with thinly-concealed disapproval, ‘but he was very ambitious. Since becoming assistant to Monsieur Bonard, he has progressed rapidly in the business and only a week ago he told us of his hopes of being made a partner. So far from killing himself over Wolfgang, he would not have hesitated to end the liaison if it interfered with his plans.’ Melissa turned back to Madame Gebrec.

  ‘Did he ever say anything to suggest that he felt threatened, or that his life was in danger?’ she asked.

  ‘No, never, but . . .’

  ‘So, all you have to go on is a . . .’ Melissa trawled her mental lexicon for a French equivalent of ‘gut reaction’, failed to find one, and finished rather tamely with, ‘a mother’s instinct.’

  ‘Exactly so, and is not that sufficient?’

  Melissa was beginning to feel out of her depth. Without thinking, she had promised to give any help that lay in her power. That undertaking seemed to be developing into a commitment to conduct a private murder investigation in a foreign country. It was out of the question; she must end this bizarre interview here and now by telling Madame Gebrec, gently but firmly, that the person to whom she should confide her doubts was Officer Hassan. Yet, stirring at the back of her mind and insistently pushing its way to the fore, the ungovernable curiosity that had in the past led her into strange, sometimes dangerous but often exciting situations was threatening to override her common sense.

  Common sense made one last stand and she heard herself asking, ‘Didn’t you tell Officer Hassan of your suspicions?’

  Madame Gebrec’s lip curled. ‘Naturally, but I could see that he was merely dismissing them as the ravings of an hysterical woman. No, I can hope for no help from that quarter. That is why I ask you . . . I beg you, Madame Craig, to try and find out who murdered my son.’

  ‘I’m not a private detective, you know,’ Melissa pointed out, but already her mind was buzzing with possible lines of enquiry.

  ‘But you solve crimes in your books,’ pleaded Madame Gebrec. ‘Surely . . .’

  ‘Creating fictitious crime is one thing, solving it in real life is something else,’ said Melissa patiently. ‘Madame Gebrec, I know I said I would help you, but that was before I understood what you wanted of me. I don’t see that I can do very much, but there may be some questions that, in the circumstances, the police have not thought it necessary to ask. If so, I’ll try to find the answers for you. That’s all I can promise for now.’

  Madame Gebrec put out a hand. ‘Thank you, thank you a thousand times,’ she said huskily.

  The look of relief and gratitude on her face brought a lump to Melissa’s throat. ‘I must leave you now,’ she said. ‘I promised to return to Les Châtaigniers for lunch.’

  ‘You will come again? To see the pictures as we arranged?’

  ‘Not this evening, surely?’

  It had not occurred to Melissa that Madame Gebrec would even remember her invitation, let alone wish it to stand, but there was no doubt of her sincerity as she said, ‘No, not this evening, but another time, please. I wish to show you the work of . . . my friend.’

  ‘I’d like to see it. I’ll be in Roziac for a few more days.’

  ‘And you will tell me as soon as you have news?’

  If I have news, Melissa corrected mentally. Aloud, she said, ‘Of course, but you must not hope for too much,’ and made her escape.

  You’re quite mad, she told herself as she drove back to Roziac. You’re supposed to be working on a book, not chasing around after a murderer who probably doesn’t even exist. And yet . . . she thought of Officer Hassan and his belief that there had been skulduggery in the case of Wolfgang Klein. He had been proved mistaken and had probably suffered a somewhat humiliating rebuff from his superior officer. Now he was equally certain that Alain Gebrec’s death was suicide. Could he once again be barking up the wrong tree?

  Lunch was already served when she reached Les Châtaigniers. Immediately, she felt a change in the atmosphere. There was no buzz of conversation; most of the students had scattered with their plates of food and were sitting around eating in silence. Iris and her group were absent, it having been agreed before they set off that they would have lunch in St-Jean-du-Gard and telephone for the mini-bus from the station at Anduze on their return. Philippe Bonard was also missing.

  ‘He’s having a working lunch in his office,’ explained Daphne, who had returned to the table for a second helping. ‘Poor man, he’s got a heavy load to carry with Alain gone.’

  ‘I must say, I admire the way he’s soldiering on with the course,’ said Melissa.

  ‘Oh, yes, he has terrific strength of character.’

  That’s what Iris always said, thought Melissa wistfully. Poor old Iris. At least she’s got Jack to lean on. He seems really smitten with her.

  Dora looked up from her chair and caught her eye. Her expression was almost welcoming and Melissa ventured to sit beside her. ‘How are things?’ she asked.

  With a slight nod, Dora directed her glance towards the opposite side of the pool, where Dieter Erdle stood staring down at the water as if engrossed in his own reflection. Rose, looking distinctly unhappy, was hovering uncertainly a few feet away, but he took no notice of her.

  ‘Have they had words?’

  Dora’s smile reminded Melissa of a contented tigress. ‘Not exactly. He’s had to change his plans, that’s all. His office wants him back on Monday so his final week here is postponed indefinitely.’

  ‘That would seem to have solved your problem.’

  ‘It has.’ Dora put her empty plate on the ground and picked up her glass of wine. ‘We leave here as arranged on Saturday morning. I just hope this glorious weather holds.’ She looked up at the flawless blue sky, dotted with a few drifting white clouds. ‘I’m looking forward to some really good rounds.’

  ‘Did you find your missing golf-club, by the way?’

  ‘No!’ Dora stiffened and her look of self-satisfaction vanished. ‘My goodness, I’d quite forgotten . . . all the drama put it right out of my head. I can’t think what’s happened to it. I was doing some putting practice yesterday morning,’ she went on reflectively. ‘My appointment wasn’t until eleven, so I had a bit of time to spare. After a while I thought I’d go into the orchard and practise some chip shots so I went to get my nine iron. I couldn’t find it.’ She glared at Melissa as if holding her partly responsible.

  ‘Could you have put it in Rose’s bag instead of your own?’ It seemed unlikely that anyone so competent as Dora would make such an elementary mistake, but under that fierce gaze Melissa felt bound to make some suggestion, however implausible.

  Dora dismissed the notion with a sniff of contempt. ‘Most unlikely!’ she snapped.

  ‘Did you check?’

  ‘Not at the time,’ admitted Dora grudgingly. ‘My watch had stopped and it was later than I thought. I’ll go and look now.’ She strode off, returning later with a face of thunder. ‘I can’t find it anywhere,’ she fumed. ‘Someone must have stolen it.’

  ‘Would anyone take a single club? I’d have thought any normal thief would make off with the whole bag. Unless . . .’ An alarming possibility shot into Melissa’s mind, but Dora could think of nothing but her own predicament.

  ‘They might just as well have done
,’ she said despairingly. ‘That iron belongs to a matched set I bought several years ago. It’s irreplaceable – if it doesn’t turn up, it means buying a whole new set. Of course, you’re not a golfer, you wouldn’t understand!’

  She was becoming more and more agitated. ‘It’s that wretched boot lid, it doesn’t always shut properly. I remember now, it was open when I went back to the car. It would have been easy for anyone to reach in and yank a club out of the bag.’

  So it would, thought Melissa, her excitement mounting. A golf-club makes a nice handy weapon if you want to attack someone. And if your victim happens to be conveniently close to the edge of a tall cliff, by the time he’s bounced down a couple of hundred metres on to the rocks, he’ll be in such a mess that the injury from the blow stands a good chance of being overlooked. Was that how Alain Gebrec had died? And if so, whose hand had struck him down, and what had become of the weapon?

  Thirteen

  After lunch Melissa went back to the library, ostensibly to work on her novel, but in reality to mull over Madame Gebrec’s dramatic allegations, the possible motive for an attack on Alain – if indeed, such an attack had taken place – and the significance, if any, of the missing golf-club. The afternoon tea-break arrived without her having reached any useful conclusions, despite several pages of scribbled notes well peppered with question marks.

  Catching sight of Philippe Bonard, who had uncharacteristically detached himself from his students and was standing alone at the far end of the terrace, she went over to him. He was staring across at the distant mountains; he seemed to be in a reverie, unaware of her presence, and she hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘Could I have a word with you, please?’

  ‘But of course.’ He swung round, instantly at her disposal, his head courteously inclined towards her.