Murder on the Clifftops

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘That would appeal to you, of course,’ said Melissa dryly.

  Iris ignored the taunt. ‘Family business – never really wanted to do it, but father made him.’ She leaned on an elbow and stirred her coffee, an absent expression softening her sharp features. ‘Lifetime ambition, setting up this school,’ she said dreamily.

  ‘So you keep telling me.’

  ‘Don’t like him, do you?’ Iris faced Melissa with an accusing glint in her eyes. ‘What’s he done to you?’

  ‘Nothing. And you’re wrong. I do like him, I think he’s charming. It’s just that . . . you seem a bit too keen on him . . .’

  Iris flushed. ‘So what’s wrong with that? Think he likes me too.’ There was a wistful note in her voice that went to Melissa’s heart. Despite the strength of her misgivings, she could not bring herself to voice them.

  At least the art course looked like being a success. Not that Melissa cared two hoots whether it was making money for Bonard or not – whatever Iris might claim, he was certainly not strapped for cash – but it was essential for Iris’s self-esteem that it should go well. So she kept her doubts to herself, merely remarking that everyone knew what Frenchmen were like and turning the whole thing into a rather laboured joke in which Iris eventually joined.

  They were sitting on the terrace admiring the sunset when Monsieur Gauthier announced with distaste that ‘that flic’ was in reception and had requested a word with Melissa. She found him behind a tall potted plant in the far corner where, she suspected, he had been deliberately steered by the proprietor in order that as few people as possible should be aware of his presence in the establishment.

  The precaution seemed unnecessary, since Hassan was evidently off duty. Instead of the blue uniform, which sat well on his big frame, he was sporting a hideous shirt patterned with palm trees and his plump buttocks were compressed into a pair of fawn slacks, the cut of which would have flattered a slimmer figure but was less than kind to his own. With a gallant wave of one hand he invited Melissa to sit down and with the other placed a small pile of well-thumbed paperbacks on a table in front of her. He spread them out in the manner of a dealer displaying merchandise for inspection by a client and then sat down facing her, his huge mouth stretched in a smile of pure delight.

  ‘As you see, Madame, I have your complete oeuvres,’ he said proudly. ‘And I have read all the stories many times.’ He picked up the books one by one, opening them at the title page, watching every movement of her pen as she signed them and commenting on the brilliance of each individual plot.

  ‘How I should enjoy meeting your Inspector Nathan Latimer, Madame!’ he sighed when she had finished. ‘We who work in the provinces rarely have the opportunity to encounter detectives of such distinction!’

  ‘I’m very glad that my books give you such pleasure,’ responded Melissa with total sincerity. ‘By the way, how is your own case progressing?’

  ‘You mean the death of Monsieur Klein?’ Hassan’s face fell. ‘Alas, Madame, I have no case. My commandant accepts the conclusions of the médecin légiste and instructs me to abandon my enquiries.’ His liquid eyes were sorrowful and the ends of his moustache drooped.

  ‘That must be rather frustrating for you,’ said Melissa politely. But what a relief for Juliette and for Fernand, she thought.

  ‘For the moment, yes, but . . .’ He began gathering the books together, handling them with exaggerated care and opening them a second time to gaze at Melissa’s signature. He placed them in a neat pile, patting them into position with his large hands, frowning slightly. She had the impression that he had something on his mind and was uncertain whether or not he should speak of it.

  After a moment he lifted his eyes from the books, leaned forward and spoke in a lowered voice. ‘In my opinion, we have not seen the last of this matter.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  He pursed his lips and wagged his head. ‘Things are not as they seem . . . I have an instinct,’ he said.

  Any moment now, thought Melissa, he’ll be tapping his nose and giving mysterious glances. It was a struggle to hide her smile as he fulfilled her expectations. ‘An instinct,’ he repeated.

  ‘Oh dear, I do hope there aren’t going to be any more . . . accidents,’ she said. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Iris hovering by the entrance. ‘Will you please excuse me now? My friend is waiting for me.’

  ‘But of course.’ He scrambled to his feet, clutching the books to his chest.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Officer,’ said Melissa.

  ‘Assuredly, we shall meet again soon!’ he said meaningfully and marched out, bowing to Iris as he passed.

  ‘Like something out of a kid’s lesson book, isn’t he?’ chuckled Iris.

  Melissa agreed, but behind her smile lay a certain unease. It was illogical, but she had a premonition that Officer Hassan’s instinct would prove correct.

  Six

  The following morning, after dropping Iris at Les Châtaigniers for the second day of her course, Melissa returned to the auberge and telephoned Antoinette Gebrec. As Madame Delon had predicted, her enquiry met with a cordial response followed by an unexpected invitation to lunch.

  It promised to be another brilliant day. There was little traffic on the picturesque road from Roziac to Alès and Melissa drove slowly, stopping once or twice along the way to contemplate the magnificent scenery. There was something about this part of France that made a powerful appeal to her imagination and emotions. The people were so strong in the faith for which their forebears had fought and suffered; their steadfastness and courage, handed down through the ages, lived on in the men and women who only a few years ago had defied the invader of their homeland. She thought of Juliette and Fernand and their martyred brother, namesake of their hero, and in some indefinable way felt at one with them.

  She arrived in Alès with an hour in hand and left the Golf in a car park alongside the Gardon, which encircles the city centre on three sides in a broad loop. She leaned for a few minutes on the stone parapet overlooking the river, shading her eyes against the glitter of sunlight on the water and feeling its warmth soaking into her bones, before crossing the road and plunging into the narrow streets of the old town.

  She found a bookshop and browsed for a while. On impulse, she bought a recently published history of the region under the Occupation and took it to a pavement café, where she sat under a gaudy sunshade, idly sipping coffee and glancing through her book, but finding the passing show around her far more diverting.

  Brightly-dressed children sat licking ice-creams or noisily sucking highly-coloured liquids through straws, while their parents drank coffee and ate pâtisserie. Evidently there was a market not far away, for there were plenty of housewives with shopping bags bulging with fresh vegetables and fruit, while here and there a businessman hurried through the crowd clutching his briefcase or sat scanning a newspaper over his coffee or cognac.

  But it was the students who appealed most strongly to Melissa, sauntering past with enormous packs on their strong young shoulders, clear-eyed, tawny-limbed and confident. Her own son, now an engineer with an oil company in the States, had back-packed round Europe while at university and she remembered his homecoming, his hair bleached by the sun, seemingly taller and more mature, full of tales of the people he had met along the way. Youngsters from a dozen different countries, some of whose grandparents had fought one another in the war . . . youngsters not much older than Roland Morlay when he met his death before the terror-stricken gaze of his nine-year-old brother.

  A man appeared with a guitar, wearing a black vest and the briefest of denim shorts over a deeply tanned body. He began playing a sad, haunting melody while singing of love and death in a rich Spanish tenor. When the song ended, he moved quietly among the tables, holding out his wide-brimmed black hat and coaxing money from the customers with a flash of white teeth and a sparkle of peat-brown eyes. As Melissa dropped a coin into the hat, receiving in retur
n a courtly bow and a murmured, ‘Muchas gracias, Señora’, a nearby clock struck eleven. It was almost time for her appointment.

  If Melissa had wished to create the character of an elderly Frenchwoman for one of her novels, she would surely have chosen Antoinette Gebrec as her model. Petite and vivacious, beautifully coiffured, discreetly made-up and dressed with simple elegance, she conformed in all respects to the universal concept of Gallic womanhood.

  When the Golf pulled up outside her house in a quiet suburb of Alès, she was sitting beneath a pergola on the terrace overlooking the road with a book on her lap. On seeing the car, she rose immediately and came tripping down the drive to unlock the tall iron gates.

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ she cried in English as Melissa stepped from the car. ‘I trust you found the house without difficulty? May I offer you a glass of wine? Or do you prefer the citron pressé?’

  ‘Not wine, thank you,’ said Melissa with a smile, glancing back at the car.

  ‘Of course, of course . . . not during the driving. Please, take a seat. The citron is already prepared – I will fetch it.’

  She vanished into the house and was back within seconds with iced lemonade in a tall glass jug. Her carriage was graceful, her movements quick and deft; there was animation in her face and a slight catch in her voice that hinted at suppressed laughter. She reminded Melissa of champagne, full of fizz and sparkle, and thought that her son had inherited neither her looks nor her personality.

  She poured the drinks, handed one to her guest and raised her own glass. ‘Santé! I am so happy to make your acquaintance. I understand you know Alain?’

  ‘Ah, you’ve spoken to Madame Delon?’

  ‘She telephoned this morning to say I might expect to hear from you. I said you had already called . . . she will join us for the lunch.’

  ‘That will be lovely. Yes, I have met your son, although only briefly.’ Melissa explained her connection with the Centre Cévenol d’Etudes. ‘I expect he has told you of the tragedy?’ Madame Gebrec nodded, her mobile face registering sorrow and concern. ‘Alain was present when we found the body – he seemed very distressed.’

  ‘He is very sensitive . . . so like . . .’ For a moment her thoughts seemed far away and by no means happy, but she quickly recovered and gave Melissa a captivating smile. ‘Now, tell me about this book you are writing. It is very exciting to meet a real author.’

  ‘But you also have written a book.’

  ‘Bah! That little thing, it is nothing! I indulge myself, it is my hobby.’

  ‘It’s very interesting. I’m really fascinated by this period in your country’s history.’ Pleasure shone in the expressive eyes. ‘And I want to use it in the plot for my new novel,’ Melissa continued. ‘I should so appreciate your help with the background.’

  ‘I shall be enchanted.’

  As Melissa explained her ideas, her hostess put down her glass and listened intently, hands clasped, head cocked on one side, now and again interjecting a word of encouragement and approval, occasionally wagging a manicured finger with an emphatic, ‘Non! Ça ne va pas! But it could be like this perhaps,’ illustrating her point with some jewel that she had quarried from her years of research in the mines of history. The time flew. Both women looked up in surprise when the sharp ring of a bell from the gate announced the arrival of Madame Delon.

  The two Frenchwomen greeted one another with affectionate kisses and Madame Gebrec promptly went off to organise the lunch, leaving her two visitors to chat. They had barely exchanged the time of day before she was back with a trolley laden with plates of charcuterie and cheese, a basket of bread and a bowl of salad.

  The conversation proceeded in French, since Madame Delon knew no English. The contrast in appearance between the friends was almost comical – the one so slight and elegant, the other homely, dowdily dressed and plump. Yet they had the same energetic manner of speaking: their metallic voices swooped and dived, their eyes rolled, their shoulders bounced, their hands flew in the air like birds performing a courtship dance. Melissa, struggling to follow the staccato bursts of speech that punctuated their intake of food, was so fascinated by their mannerisms that more than once she lost the thread of what they were saying and had to beg them to speak more slowly, which they did with great good humour and shrieks of tinny laughter.

  The time flew and at three o’clock Madame Delon rose, saying that she must leave now to catch her bus.

  ‘I can drive you back to Anduze,’ said Melissa.

  ‘Ah, but that is so kind!’ declared Madame Gebrec before her friend had a chance to speak. ‘That will be so much more comfortable for you, Gabrielle, and there is no need to hurry.’ She seemed reluctant to allow her guests to go.

  Madame Delon was equally determined to stay no longer. ‘Just the same, I should be leaving soon,’ she said firmly. ‘Henri will be home for his supper at six o’clock and I have to do the shopping.’ She turned to Melissa. ‘If that does not inconvenience you, Madame?’

  ‘Not at all. I have to be back at Les Châtaigniers in time to collect my friend. Perhaps I could use the toilet before we go?’

  ‘Of course. Gabrielle, you will show Madame Craig?’ Madame Gebrec began stacking plates on to the trolley.

  ‘But certainly. This way.’

  The door from the terrace led directly into a long, somewhat overfurnished salon, cool and dim after the heat and brightness outside, its deep window-sills shaded by closed shutters and crowded with knick-knacks. The walls were covered with pictures; near the door was an original oil painting of the Porte des Cévennes and Melissa paused to look at it.

  ‘Do you know who did this?’ she enquired.

  Madame Delon glanced over her shoulder before replying. ‘An old friend of Antoinette, many years ago,’ she said guardedly.

  Melissa pointed to the small light above the picture. ‘May I?’

  Madame Delon shrugged. ‘I suppose.’

  Melissa pressed the switch. The yellowish lamp gave the illusion of sunlight flooding the canvas and she stood back to admire the effect.

  ‘It’s good,’ she said after a few moments. ‘My friend is an artist – she would like it.’

  Madame Delon made no comment. She ushered Melissa out of the room into a small entrance hall and indicated a door on the other side. ‘That one,’ she said.

  On the way back from the bathroom, Melissa stopped in front of a cabinet laden with framed photographs. Most were of Alain at various stages of childhood and adolescence, some on his own, some with his mother. There was a wedding photograph as well; the passing years had faded the picture, but not the radiance of the bride’s smile. Her groom, a soldier in uniform, stood stiffly at her side.

  ‘Is Monsieur Gebrec still living?’ asked Melissa softly, although she felt she already knew the answer.

  ‘Alas no, Madame, he was killed in the war.’

  Madame Gebrec accompanied them to the car. The book that Melissa had bought earlier lay on the passenger seat; as she went to remove it, it slipped from its wrappings. Madame Gebrec gave a sharp exclamation.

  ‘You buy that book?’ The black eyes that had been sparkling with good humour a moment before had become hard, almost angry.

  ‘Yes, I got it this morning in Alès,’ said Melissa, surprised at the reaction. ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t recommend it? The assistant in the bookshop said . . .’

  ‘Bah, it is well enough.’ Madame Gebrec screwed up her mouth and made a dismissive gesture, as if to avoid contact with something unpleasant. ‘The author is an historian respected by many but his so-called facts, he does not always verify them. I too am writing a book about this period . . . it will be more accurate than this one, I assure you.’

  ‘I shall make a point of buying a copy.’ Melissa hastily pushed the book back into the crumpled wrapping and put it out of sight, then held out her hand. ‘Thank you very much for your help, Madame, and your hospitality. It’
s been a great pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘It has been a pleasure for me also,’ said Madame Gebrec. She spoke warmly, but her smile of farewell did not reach her eyes and there were hard lines round her mouth.

  Any hope Melissa might have entertained of learning from Madame Delon what lay behind Madame Gebrec’s outburst came to nothing. The discreet feelers that she put out during the drive back to Anduze met with monosyllabic replies that indicated, firmly but politely, that the matter was no concern of hers.

  She would have liked to know just which passages in the book her hostess found objectionable, but it was plain that the only way to find out was to study it for herself. Even so, she had no means of recognising them and to wade through three hundred-odd pages in search of some unidentified reference would be a formidable task and probably not worth the effort. It was an unsatisfactory conclusion to an otherwise profitable visit.

  She dropped her passenger in the centre of Anduze and made her way back to Roziac. There was still an hour left before the classes finished, so she parked the Golf in the courtyard and picked up the book, then changed her mind and took her camera from the glove compartment instead. She had not had it with her on Sunday during the walk to the belvedere and although it might now be too late in the day to catch the best of the light, it would be useful to have a few shots to help with descriptions of the scenery when she came to write her novel.

  It had turned somewhat cooler, with a light but refreshing breeze. She soon found the path and began the climb. The way was now wide enough for two people to walk abreast and the largest of the loose stones had been thrown aside. Here and there, a fragment of plastic ribbon fluttered from a low branch, a mute reminder of the recent tragedy and the police activity that had followed.

  Ahead, a series of clattering bumps that sounded like wood falling against wood echoed through the trees; no doubt Fernand was once more busy with the task of repairing the guard-rail. Shortly after she became aware of the sounds, they stopped; a moment later she came to the clearing where she had first seen and spoken to him. The tractor was there with the trailer attached, its tailboard unfastened. A few sections of rail were lying on the bottom, several more were scattered on the ground and one was propped against the end of the trailer as if whoever had been in the act of loading or unloading had abandoned it in a hurry. There was no sign of Fernand.