by Betsy Draine
“That may be. But there are wealthy collectors in your country who will buy antiquities of questionable provenance at very high prices, isn’t that so?”
“I tell you, we don’t know anything about such things,” I answered with a catch in my voice. This interchange had unnerved me. I had not been prepared for it. We had witnessed a crime, but it was absurd to consider us suspects. Daglan gauged my reaction and drew back a little. He had been pushing hard.
“I am not making any accusations at this point. As I said before, I am simply speculating.”
I suddenly felt alone. But there was Toby, thank God.
“Monsieur Daglan,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm. “I’m wondering if we need a lawyer. Would you advise me to contact the American consulate in Bordeaux?”
“You are free to do so, but to be frank, I would advise against it. You don’t need a lawyer just because I have asked you a few questions. You are not under arrest, and once the diplomatic bureaucrats become involved, everything gets more complicated. Try to have a little patience, Madame. Justice will prevail in due course.”
We exchanged volleys for a few more minutes, but Daglan’s expression had relaxed, and his questions became less pointed, until at last he sat back and folded his hands in his lap. I took this signal as an end to the interview and rose to my feet. Since Daglan didn’t object, but merely tilted back in his chair, I turned and left the room. When I checked my watch and saw it was only twenty after ten, I was astonished. It felt as if I had been in that room for hours.
The library gave out onto the salon, where we had sipped our champagne and where I had talked with Marianne that morning. Jackie now sat in the baron’s chair, ramrod straight, waiting, apparently, for me to emerge. He leaped to his feet and came over to meet me.
“Madame Barnes, I must ask you to sit here for a moment while we call the next witness. We would like each person to approach the interview without having talked to someone whom the inspector has interrogated.”
This was beginning to feel more and more like a police station. It helped a little to see that Toby was the next one called, since that meant my wait would be over soon and we would be free to talk.
As Toby entered the library, Jackie asked, “Do you have something to read, Madame? This could take some time.”
“Well, then, I think I’ll go to my room and read there.”
“No, I’m sorry but that won’t be possible. I am to stay with you, and the inspector asked that we stay here, outside the library, in case he wants to call you in to his interview with your companion.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘companion’? He’s my husband. Where are you getting these ideas?”
“Gurgle, Madame.” At least that’s what it sounded like.
“Do you mean Google?” I asked.
“That’s what I said.”
“And Google says Toby is my ‘companion?’”
“It does not say you are married.”
“Well, it’s nice to know there’s still some privacy on the Internet. Could we go get my book, then, and I’ll read here under your surveillance?” That was acceptable.
On the way back from my room to the salon, I had a glimpse into the dining room, where Guillaume and Marianne were seated closely together engaged in a tête-à-tête. Literally. Their foreheads were almost touching as they talked intensely in low voices. The baron stood at a window with his back toward them. From my angle, I could see his face in profile. He seemed to be staring into the past, where the very old spend much of their time.
Nearly an hour later, the library door opened. Watching the time slowly tick by, I had assumed Toby was getting the third degree, but he seemed relaxed as he emerged from the room.
“How’d it go?” I asked anxiously.
“I’ll tell you about it. Let’s go outside, and we’ll compare notes.” With Jackie’s permission, we walked out into the back garden and shared our stories. Daglan had put Toby through the same round of questions he had used on me, including the innuendos and sarcastic asides. He had wanted to know all about Toby’s business, his supposed dealings in prehistoric artifacts, the reasons for our current trip to France, our prior connections in the region (none), and what we knew about the other guests at the château, particularly David Press. But Toby was convinced Daglan was going through the motions rather than seriously pegging either one of us as suspects.
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“Just a hunch. The way he was asking the questions, I guess, sort of mechanically. Then toward the end he changed the subject and started asking me some random questions about our life.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Well, that’s just it. They didn’t seem connected with the case. He wanted to know whether we have any relatives in France, whether my father fought in the war, and how Americans feel about Germany now. He asked about California, and what kind of house we live in, and what my favorite television show is. I asked him why in the world he would want to know that. He said he was watching re-runs of Santa Barbara on French TV and he just wondered if it gave an accurate picture of life in the United States.”
“Sounds like he was trying to put you off guard,” I ventured.
“Maybe he was, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. But he can’t really think we had anything to do with the murder. It doesn’t add up.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“About what?”
“Santa Barbara.”
“Oh. I said it was just fantasy and that only a few rich Americans live in monster mansions by the ocean and drive fancy luxury cars, while the rest of us live normal lives like the average Frenchman.”
“Hmph. Well, he took a much more intimidating tone with me.”
“He’s not as gruff as he wants us to think he is. He’s clever, though.”
I shot Toby an irritated look. “What? You’re not taking this seriously enough.”
“I am. It’s just that I doubt we’re going to end up in jail. And since we’re not headed for the clinker, I have a suggestion.”
“Wait a minute. We very well could wind up in jail. This isn’t a joke, Toby. We could be in trouble here.”
“All right, take it easy.”
“Don’t tell me to take it easy. You mean keep quiet and leave everything to you because I’m getting all worked up over nothing.”
“Nora, you know I didn’t mean that.”
“No? You cut me off every time I try to get you to see the seriousness of this situation. Someone has been murdered, Toby. We were there. Daglan thinks we had a motive.”
“Oh, come on!”
Now I was getting mad. “Look, just because you’ve led a charmed life doesn’t mean that you’re invulnerable. I’ve seen the inside of a jail. I don’t want that to happen again.”
“That was a very different thing, Nora. Spending one night in jail for having occupied the chancellor’s office during a student protest at Berkeley doesn’t make you into a case for Amnesty International. And what do you mean, I’ve led a charmed life?”
“You know what I mean. Private school, help with setting up your business, everything you’ve ever needed.”
“I’m not ashamed of that, if you’re suggesting I should be. I know you’re upset, but don’t take it out on me.”
“Upset? Well, it makes sense to be upset when you’ve just witnessed a murder, you’re suspected of committing it, your mother’s on your case from thousands of miles away, and your little sister is about to blow her trust fund on God knows what. And by the way, do I get any sympathy for the family stress? No. As usual, you act like my family is best ignored.”
“Hey, one thing at a time. I do care about your family. I just think you’re a little too involved with them.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d had a little sister to bring up. You never had anyone to look after but yourself.”
“That’s a low blow,” Toby sighed. (True, it wasn’t his fault
that he was an only child.) “All right. Truce? Look, I hate it when we quarrel. Maybe you’re right and I’m not taking this as seriously as I should. But it won’t help to get all upset. I was going to say, let’s put all this aside for a few hours and go out to lunch. How about it?”
Typical. But perhaps a good idea. I hate it when we quarrel, too, and I was sorry that I had jumped down his throat.
“Lunch,” I deadpanned sarcastically.
“Lunch,” repeated Toby, casting a doleful look requesting absolution. “In Castelnaud.”
“I am upset, and frightened too.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why we need a break. What do you say?”
I sighed, and the air began to go out of our argument. Toby went for the car while I whisked back to our room to pick up my purse and a sweater. As I came down the stairs, I could hear Toby bringing the car up to the front entrance, tires crunching on the pebbled driveway. Just as I ducked out the door, I saw David Press being ushered into the library. His attempt to look casual seemed forced.
Once we were in the car, the rest of my anger dissipated. “Sorry I chewed you out,” I said. “I think I lost it back there. Daglan really got to me.”
“We’re good,” said Toby. “Look.” He nodded toward the passing scenery.
I willed myself to look out the window and enjoy it. The road followed the river through verdant fields planted with corn and tobacco and framed by honey-colored cliffs, four of them topped by imposing castles. The mightiest was Castelnaud. With its great round artillery tower baking in the sun, it dominated the valley. We passed a field of swaying sunflowers, crossed a bridge, and climbed a steep road up the side of a cliff with precipitous switchbacks, which brought us to the village.
Besides the castle, there wasn’t much else to see in town: a tiny square boasting an old stone cross, a mairie (town hall), a few shuttered shops, and a sleepy outdoor café shaded by a sprawling linden tree. We parked in the small lot nearby—since it was lunchtime, the tourists had deserted—and we seated ourselves at a dented metal table at the café. We were the only customers. A cluster of yellow stone houses built against the steep hill blocked our view of the fortress, but we could still feel it looming over the village as we enjoyed our lunch: a bowl of soup, a slice of pâté, and a piece of homemade walnut cake. The cake was drier than Madame Martin’s, but because it was feather-light and yet full of walnut flavor, it tasted heavenly. For the first time since the murder, I was starting to unwind.
Or at least I was, until Toby started talking about the forbidden subject. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that bird that was left at the scene. It was put there for a purpose, but whether the purpose was rational or crazy is the question.”
“Do we have to talk about the murder? Now that you got me away from that hothouse, I like being out here and I don’t want to spoil it.”
“Not if you don’t want to, but just listen to one point. The motive for the killing has to be connected to the cave art, because the bird is a specific reference to it. So who would have a grievance against Lascaux?”
“There are lots of nutty people who get worked up about art and do crazy things to desecrate it. Remember the madman who attacked Michelangelo’s statue of the Pietà with a hammer? But chalking the crime up to a madman doesn’t get us very far, and besides, I’d rather think about other things right now. Can we change the subject?”
“Right,” said Toby. He could see I was tensing up. “Let’s go see the castle, then, and make the most of the afternoon.” He pushed back from the table.
“Thanks.” We rose to go.
The mairie, just across from the café, was connected to a small stone house to its left by its second story, making a sort of overpass, leaving a passageway beneath for pedestrians. A little sign saying “château” pointed through the passageway. We followed, to discover a steep path lined by cozy rectangular houses, all hewn from the same limestone. The colors of the stone changed as sun or shadows played over its surfaces. Sometimes the blocks appeared yellow, sometimes ochre, sometimes orange or even white in the bright daylight. The village, especially now during its quiet hour, seemed little changed from the Middle Ages.
Up close, the castle was enormous. Although it had been heavily restored, there were sections left in partial ruin as a reminder of its age. The interior now housed a Museum of Medieval Warfare, with exhibits of arms and armor, computer projections of the castle’s stages of construction, and dioramas of sieges. But nothing prepared me for the panoramic view of the valley as we exited the castle onto the terrace. Toby took a perch on the low wall of the terrace, his legs dangling in space, as we gazed out across an immense vista. To the west, the Château of Beynac, also perched high on its cliff, glared at Castelnaud as an equal—and indeed, the two fortresses had been bitter rivals, in war and in peace. Straight ahead, the Château of Marquesac soaked up the afternoon sun. To the east, the lovely village of La Roque-Gageac could just be made out in the distance.
I sat down next to Toby, smooched his cheek to cement our truce, and began to read aloud from the visitor’s brochure as he gazed across the valley. And as I was reading, something in the narrative caught my attention. The Château of Castelnaud first entered the historical record in 1214, when the ill-named Pope Innocent III launched a bloody crusade against a heretical sect called the Cathars, who were plentiful here. The master of Castelnaud, one Bernard de Casnac, was a follower of the count of Toulouse, a leader of the heretics, when the pope unleashed a brutal warrior named Simon de Montfort to wipe out the group. Which Simon did.
What piqued my interest was a sentence in the brochure that described the pope’s “crusade against the Cathars of Languedoc.” “Languedoc” was the term Guillaume de Cazelle had used the night before at dinner to describe his pride in the region. For him, the old name still meant something. But who were the Cathars, exactly? I made a mental note to myself to find out more.
“All very interesting,” said Toby, swinging his legs back onto the ground and getting to his feet. We made our way down the path to the village, admiring the views of the valley as we descended. Back in the tiny main square, we checked out a couple of shops that had been closed during the lunch hour. One sold local products for the tourist trade (canned pâté, walnut liqueur, souvenirs bearing the image of the castle), another sold hats and scarves, and one featured miniature châteaus.
The mairie had two doors dividing the ground floor of the building between the mayor’s office (closed) and a provincial one-room library, which doubled as a bookshop. Inside, a petite young woman with freckles and short red hair greeted us and asked if she could be of assistance. “Merci,” we said, but we added that today we were only looking. The room was orderly and attractive, with stone walls and wooden shelves piled high with books. The subjects were fiction mainly, with a hit-or-miss selection of other items and an entire wall of books of regional interest: volumes on local history, cooking, archaeology, prehistoric art, medieval warfare, architecture, and agriculture; as well as books and pamphlets on the Resistance in Périgord. A table displayed glossy photograph books; these had price stickers on them. We thumbed through a couple and moved to the door.
“Be sure to visit the exposition of fossils before you leave,” the librarian advised us in a pleasant voice. “It’s free.” Indeed, a sign posted on the outside of the building indicated that a display of fossils was open to the public on the second floor. We climbed the outside staircase and took the open door as an invitation to enter without knocking.
Inside, rows of trays and glass boxes displayed minerals and stones containing traces of small sea creatures, or imprints of their shells, or insects trapped in amber. There were some odd lots of arrowheads and other Neolithic tools. The old wooden floor squeaked as we moved from case to case. The proprietor, seated behind a desk, was a slightly heavy, nervous-looking man in his middle years wearing jeans and a checkered shirt. He had thick brown hair and a walrus mustache. Although we were
the only customers at the moment, he tried not to hover, but he gave us a welcoming smile and followed us with his eyes as we wandered around.
“Would you like to see the earrings, Madame?” he asked optimistically, as I paused over a case of jewelry featuring items made of purple quartz.
“No thank you,” I replied. “I was just looking.”
“Perhaps you are interested in fossils, Monsieur?” he shifted to Toby, raising his bushy eyebrows and getting up from his desk. “Everything you see here is authentic, I can assure you. And some of these are quite rare, like this (here he mentioned the name of a creature we had never heard of ), which dates from the Pleistocene.” He lifted a rock fragment from one of the trays and explicated the squiggles on its surface. “Or this trilobite, which is a very fine specimen and over 4 million years old!”
“Thank you,” said Toby, declining the offer as affably as he could. “In fact, I’m interested in antiques, but nothing that old.”
“Monsieur is an antiquaire?” asked the proprietor. Toby nodded yes.
“American?” he asked again. The French are very good at figuring out your accent.
“That’s right. We’re from California.”
His face folded into a frown. “You are the Americans who are staying at the Château de Cazelle?”
“How did you know that?” Toby asked, surprised.
“And you were in Lascaux when that man was killed yesterday!”
“That’s true,” admitted Toby, who was now off balance. “But how—?”
“It’s in the newspaper, Monsieur. Here, look.” He went to the desk where he had been sitting when we entered and came back with a copy of the Sud-Ouest. A stark headline announced the death of a visitor to the famous cave of Lascaux. The accompanying photo showed Inspector Daglan speaking to a reporter. Our names were not mentioned, but the story identified as witnesses several American tourists who were currently lodged at the Château de Cazelle. They were described as an American lawyer and an American antiques dealer who were visiting the region accompanied by their wives.
