Hassan was on his feet. His depression had evaporated; he had the air of a prizefighter entering the ring and his smile outshone the dingy light bulb over their heads. ‘Once more, I thank you for your invaluable help, Madame.’
At the door he almost collided with the Lovells, returning with Rose. He gave them a courteous salute and was rewarded with hostile glares.
‘How much longer are you going to detain Mrs Lavender?’ demanded Eric with a trace of belligerence.
Hassan assumed the benign expression of a schoolmaster announcing an extra half-holiday. ‘Madame Lavender is already at liberty,’ he said, and hurried away before anyone could question him further.
Rose turned to Melissa. ‘Is it really true?’
‘Quite true. You’ll find her in the restaurant.’
‘Oh, thank God!’ Rose hugged them in turn, her eyes brimming. ‘I must go and find her. It’s all been so dreadful – I do so hope we can be friends again.’
‘I’m sure you can.’
‘And thank you all for being so kind.’ She was smiling through her tears, like a lost child whose mother has been found.
‘So, what now?’ asked Eric, as Rose darted off.
‘I suppose the search for Alain’s murderer goes on,’ said Melissa.
Passing through the restaurant on her way back to the terrace, Melissa saw Rose and Dora sitting at a table in the corner. They were sharing a bottle of wine but saying little, exchanging wary glances like two creatures of the same species meeting in the wild, each uncertain whether the other was friend or foe. She would have slipped past without interrupting, but Dora put out a hand.
‘Could I ask a favour, please?’ she said.
‘Of course.’ Melissa noted with relief that colour was returning to her face and the stress lines had begun to smooth out.
‘Would you be kind enough to drive me to Les Châtaigniers in the morning to pick up our car?’
Melissa’s heart sank. The last thing she wanted was to be at Les Châtaigniers during the police search and possibly have to witness Fernand’s distress, but she could hardly refuse such a reasonable request. ‘By all means,’ she heard herself saying. ‘What time?’
‘The earlier the better. I . . . that is, we . . . want to set out for Antibes in good time.’ Dora flicked a glance at Rose as she made the hasty correction, as if acknowledging that from now on, more decisions would be made jointly.
‘That suits me fine. Shall we say about eight-thirty, immediately after breakfast?’ With any luck, they could be there and away before the police arrived. At least, it was going to be a pleasure to pass on to Iris and Jack the news that Dora and Rose had begun to mend their fences.
Twenty-Two
Long after she and Iris had said goodnight, Melissa lay awake, too keyed up to sleep. On the face of it, the case was all but complete. Philippe Bonard had killed Alain Gebrec with Dora’s number nine iron, pushed the body over the cliff and concealed the murder weapon in the secret refuge. Tomorrow the police would recover it and Bonard would be detained while it was examined for fingerprints; later, he would be charged with murder. The sequence repeated itself in her mind in an endless loop.
In an effort to escape, she switched her thoughts towards her new novel and began composing the first chapter in her head – a habit of hers before she began the actual writing. It was not a happy decision.
The opening scene was a secret grotto where a group of hunted Camisards had taken shelter. There would be a graphic word picture of hollow-eyed, desperate men clad in the loose white shirts or camises from which their name derived, huddled in the light of a smoking lantern that cast weird shadows on the walls.
At some point in her uneasy imaginings she must have drifted into a fitful sleep. She was still in the grotto, but the men began melting away like ghosts. The flickering flame steadied and then burned more brightly; it seemed to escape from the lantern like a genie, moving with a power of its own as if searching for something or someone, coming to rest at last on the figure of a man who stood in a corner with his back towards her. As she watched, his camise became an artist’s smock; slowly, he turned to face her, revealing the shattered features of Alain Gebrec. His eyes stared lifelessly through her, his mouth was twisted in a ghastly rictus. He raised a hand; instead of a paintbrush, the acorn-pull of a blind dangled from broken, bloodstained fingers.
Melissa’s limbs had turned to stone and her throat was paralysed. Something gripped her by the shoulders and she had no power to struggle free. A familiar voice penetrated her brain, calling from a great distance. The voice grew louder; with a mighty effort she threw off the shackles of the dream and sat up in bed, gasping and trembling.
‘That sounded nasty,’ remarked Iris, switching on her lamp. ‘Are you too hot?’
‘No, it’s not the heat.’ Melissa combed her hair from her face with a hand that shook. ‘It’s this awful business of Alain’s murder – I can’t get it out of my mind.’
There was a long silence before Iris said, ‘Philippe knows about that cave, doesn’t he?’
‘Who told you?’
‘No one. Guessed. Why didn’t you say?’
‘Jack and I both thought it would upset you . . . and until it was known for sure . . .’
In the dim yellow light, Iris’s eyes glittered more brightly than usual. ‘If Dora didn’t do it, and Fernand and Erdle have alibis, it must have been Philippe, mustn’t it?’
‘It looks like it.’ Melissa clasped her knees and stared at the wall. ‘I never believed it was Fernand, but for a while I really thought it was either Dora or Dieter – only neither of them could have known about the cave. Of course, we shan’t be certain until they find that golf-club and check it for finger-prints.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘Poor Fernand, it’ll break his heart to have the fuzz in his beloved “secret refuge”. He’ll feel violated.’
‘He’ll get over it.’
‘And you?’ Melissa gave her friend an anxious glance. ‘I know you had a thing about Philippe.’
‘Don’t worry about me. Been a nasty knock, but I’m all right. How about some herb tea?’
‘Good idea. It’ll help us both to sleep.’
Iris boiled water in her portable heater and poured it over camomile tea-bags. Presently, just as Melissa felt herself drifting away, a small voice called her back. ‘What d’you think of Jack?’
‘I think he’s pretty good value,’ she replied drowsily.
‘Me too.’
Melissa smiled into the darkness. It wasn’t all bad news.
Saturday morning saw the first signs of a change in the weather, with a sharp drop in temperature and a cool breeze chasing frayed patches of grey cloud across the mountains.
‘I hope it’s better than this in Antibes,’ remarked Dora, as she and Melissa set off for Les Châtaigniers. ‘Wind is such a nuisance when you’re playing golf.’
‘I’m sure it must be,’ murmured Melissa, choking back an urge to giggle at the unintentional double entendre. ‘You didn’t have any problems about getting away?’
‘What kind of problems?’ asked Dora sharply.
‘Oh, er, I just wondered.’ It had not perhaps been the most tactful of remarks.
‘If you mean, are my movements restricted, I had to give that overbearing gendarme our address in Antibes. I also let him know that our friend there is a lawyer and that I would be taking his advice on bringing a complaint for wrongful arrest.’
There was a steely glint in Dora’s eye that spelled possible trouble for the overenthusiastic Officer Hassan. It was quite clear that detention and interrogation had done nothing to blunt her cutting edge.
‘Best of luck!’ murmured Melissa.
When they reached Les Châtaigniers, the gates were open and a police van stood in the courtyard. Several young men were lolling against it, chatting and smoking. One, presumably the driver, was in uniform; the remainder wore jeans, sweat-shirts and stout boots. The side door of the van was open, revealing an arra
y of ropes and climbing tackle.
‘Whatever’s going on?’ asked Dora.
‘Looks as if they’re going to search the cliffs,’ said Melissa cautiously. She had no intention of telling Dora of the latest developments.
‘If they find my missing iron, I shall demand that it be returned to me as soon as possible.’ Dora got out of the car and fished the keys of the Sierra from her handbag. ‘Thank you for the lift, Melissa.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘I’ll see you back at the auberge then.’
‘Yes, of course. Tell Iris I shan’t be long, will you?’
Dora looked as if she was about to ask a question, but decided against it, got into her own car and drove off.
Melissa sat for several minutes resting her arms on her steering wheel, trying to decide what to do. It would be so simple just to drive away and put the whole wretched business behind her. If she stayed, there was little she could do to alter the course of events. Any minute now, Officer Hassan would arrive with Philippe Bonard under escort and the search would begin.
She could imagine all too clearly Fernand’s agitation when he realised what was happening. He might do something desperate in a futile attempt to prevent the operation taking place. Perhaps, seeing the arrival of the team in the police van and guessing what it signified, he had already gone to the secret refuge with some wild notion of defending it. Hopelessly outnumbered, he would soon see that the cause was lost . . . and then what? The chilling memory of that dark line where the floor of the cave stopped short of the wall came rushing back; once again she heard the echo of his warning: ‘That way, it is death!’
With a groan, Melissa pressed her face against the wheel in an effort to obliterate the picture from her head. There was a tap on the windscreen and she looked up to see the young gendarme peering in at her. Hastily, she wound down the window.
‘Are you all right, Madame?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you . . . I was thinking,’ she said in some confusion. ‘Are you waiting for Officer Hassan?’
‘Yes, Madame. Do you wish to speak to him?’
‘No . . . that is, what time will he be here?’
‘I expect him at any minute.’
‘Thank you.’
He saluted and moved away. Melissa made up her mind. If she had a word with Juliette, perhaps together they could think of a way to divert her brother’s attention, possibly send him away on an errand that would prevent him from realising what was going on. It might avert another tragedy; it was worth a try. She got out of the car and hurried into the house.
Juliette was in the kitchen, standing at the sink with her back to the door. When Melissa entered she swung round, her look of alarm changing swiftly first to relief and then to anger.
‘Ah, it is you, Madame! You see what we have to endure?’ She flung her hands in the air. ‘Are we never to have peace in this house?’
‘Juliette, where is Fernand?’
‘In the orchard, gathering fruit. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, Juliette, the police are going to search his secret refuge!’
Juliette stiffened and her eyes seemed to glaze over; then she relaxed and gave a curious half-smile. ‘They cannot do that, Madame. They do not know where to find it.’
‘They soon will. Can you think of something we can do to keep it from Fernand? You know how it will upset him!’
Juliette did not appear to have heard the question. ‘Who will tell them?’ she demanded.
‘Monsieur Bonard. It’s true!’ Melissa insisted as Juliette dumbly shook her head. ‘The police believe that he killed Monsieur Gebrec and concealed the murder weapon in the secret refuge. He knows where it is . . . they will make him lead them there.’
Juliette put a hand to her mouth. ‘Ah, no!’ she whispered.
‘Go up to the orchard!’ said Melissa urgently. ‘The search may not take very long. Keep Fernand there . . . make any excuse . . .’ She broke off at the sound of another vehicle entering the courtyard. ‘That must be Officer Hassan. Hurry!’
Juliette did not appear to have heard. Her eyes were wild and she turned her head from side to side like a cornered animal.
‘Hurry!’ shouted Melissa. She tugged at Juliette’s arm, but with a convulsive movement the woman shook her off, whirled round and darted through the open door at the back of the kitchen. She ran along the gravel path behind the house to the gate leading into the forest, flung it open and headed for the belvedere.
‘For God’s sake, what does she think she’s doing?’ muttered Melissa through clenched jaws. Without hesitation she set off in pursuit, although she knew now that she was wasting her time. At any minute Hassan would follow with his prisoner and the team of climbers; probably Fernand had already spotted the police van and guessed what was going on. If she had any sense, she’d lie low in the kitchen until the coast was clear and then get the hell out of it. Yet she kept on running as if her body was moving of its own volition.
Juliette had an astonishing turn of speed. Now and again she stumbled on the rough ground, but nothing slowed her down. Her long skirt flapped round her legs; her hair escaped from the old-fashioned bun and straggled round her shoulders like a hank of grey wool. At the point where the path to the cave entrance branched off, she was almost out of sight.
Only then did it dawn on Melissa that she knew how to reach the cave. It was clear now what she must be planning to do: with her ingrained sense of loyalty to her master, she would try to find the weapon that he had used to strike down Gebrec before the police got there. If she succeeded, she would probably fling it over the edge of the chasm in the belief that it could not be recovered.
‘And I told her where to look for it!’ Melissa groaned. Now she was in all sorts of trouble; even Hassan’s admiration and goodwill would be of scant use when he found out that she had interfered with the course of justice.
She glanced back down the path. There was no one in sight, but the chug of a diesel engine told her that the police van was approaching by the main track from the road, doubtless guided by Bonard. They would park in the clearing where she had first seen Fernand and walk the rest of the way. Perhaps there was still time to persuade Juliette to abandon her reckless plan.
By now the adrenalin was flowing so strongly that Melissa reached the edge of the cliff without experiencing a trace of the vertigo that had made her visit to the secret refuge such a terrifying experience. She dropped to her hands and knees and peered below the overhanging rock, but there was no sign of Juliette. She must already be in the cave.
‘Juliette!’ she shouted above the roar of the water that seethed and tumbled below. ‘Juliette, come back!’
There was no response. Melissa cupped her hands and called again, but her voice was tossed back by the blustery breeze. In desperation, barely giving a thought to what she was doing, she began to crawl forward. A hand gripped her ankle; feeling as foolish as a schoolgirl caught smoking behind the bike shed, she shuffled back, sat on her haunches and looked up at the furious countenance of Officer Hassan.
‘Are you out of your mind, Madame?’ he demanded. ‘How dare you interfere with a police operation?’
‘That wasn’t my intention,’ faltered Melissa. She was still panting from her run up the steep path and her throat felt as dry as dust. She pointed along the ledge. ‘Juliette Morlay has gone into the cave . . . I was trying . . .’
‘Have the goodness to stand up and move aside!’ he barked.
In the act of obeying, Melissa gave an involuntary glance along the ledge. ‘Look!’ she croaked.
Hassan crouched, looked, and muttered an oath. Juliette had emerged from the cave and was standing on the flat stone slab by the entrance. She was gazing out across the river, her head flung back, her hair streaming in the breeze. Like some pagan goddess guarding her shrine with a sacred flame, she held Dora’s golf-club aloft. The effect was both ludicrous and horrible.
Instinctively, Melissa froze, for fear of start
ling her into a fatal movement. No such possibility had occurred to Hassan.
‘This is the police,’ he shouted. ‘You are handling vital evidence. Put that down at once and come here!’
Juliette turned towards the sound and Melissa shuddered at the expression of unholy triumph on her face. ‘It was I who struck him down!’ she shouted exultantly. ‘I cut the rotting branch from the poisoned oak tree!’ As if to demonstrate how she had delivered the fatal blow, she swung the club in a vicious arc. The momentum sent her lurching towards the edge of the cliff and she all but fell.
‘Oh, my God, she’ll go over!’ muttered Hassan. He snatched out a handkerchief and put it to his mouth. His face had a greenish tinge and he seemed to be struggling not to throw up.
‘May I try?’ said Melissa. He nodded dumbly and moved aside. She edged forward a fraction. ‘Juliette!’ she called, ‘Do you hear me?’
Juliette took no notice. There were sounds of a commotion; Fernand was shoving and elbowing his way through the waiting group, throwing off the hands that tried to hold him back. He rushed over to Melissa, his eyes full of fear and reproach.
‘Madame! You were followed – we are betrayed!’
Hassan appeared about to explode. His eyes blazed, his cheeks blew out and his moustache quivered, but no sound came from his pursed lips. Melissa seized her chance.
‘Fernand, these men mean us no harm,’ she said urgently.
He looked puzzled. ‘Are they not the King’s men?’
She grabbed his hand. ‘Listen to me. The wars have ended, the Camisards have won the battle for their freedom, but your sister is in danger. You must help her. See!’ She pointed along the ledge and he dropped on all fours beside her.
Murder on the Clifftops Page 24
