Murder on the Clifftops

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘That is how it is with him,’ said the woman with a shrug. ‘He has good days and bad days. One never knows.’ Her eyes fell on the book which Melissa held in one hand. ‘You study our history, I see?’

  ‘Yes. Have you read this?’

  ‘I have little time for reading. Will you be here for lunch today, Madame?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’m going to spend the morning here.’

  Juliette made no further comment and her manner discouraged further conversation. Melissa turned away to chat to the students as they got out of their cars and gathered in groups in the courtyard. Philippe Bonard came out to welcome them all with the customary handshake and greeting.

  Dora, who had not appeared at breakfast, now drove in alone, parked facing the wall and remained in the car, the angle of her head suggesting that she was watching points in the rear-view mirror. A few minutes later Rose and Dieter arrived; the latter was in ebullient mood, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries all round, while his companion hardly spoke, but kept her mouth stretched in a smile that was like a tight band across her face.

  Bonard detached himself from the others for a quiet word with Melissa. ‘I take it there have been no further developments?’ he said.

  ‘On the contrary. Didn’t you notice?’ She nodded across to where the students were making their way towards the house – all except Dora, who was giving unnaturally close attention to a morning-glory climbing up the wall.

  Bonard gave a wry smile and shook his head. ‘I meant, with your detective work.’

  ‘In a way, there’s a connection.’ Briefly, she recounted the events of the previous evening and his face grew grave. ‘I’m afraid there are going to be repercussions,’ she said. ‘If Officer Hassan has his way, there’ll be a squad of gendarmes searching for that missing golf-club.’

  Bonard spread his hands and lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘I hope they keep the disturbance to a minimum. It has been a bad week for the Centre.’

  ‘Yes, it has. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you.’ A smile relieved his sombre expression, but could not disguise the shadows under his eyes. ‘Do you wish to use the library this morning?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll sit on the terrace and do some reading. I’ve decided to give my novel a rest for this morning.’

  ‘Whatever you wish.’ With a brief bow he hurried after his flock.

  Melissa made her way into the garden, settled herself in a comfortable chair under an umbrella and began to read. It was going to be another scorching day, with the temperature already climbing through the twenties. At first she found it difficult to concentrate and her eyes kept straying – first to the pool, sparkling like polished glass in the morning sunshine, on through the gardens and the orchard and thence upwards across the forest towards the soaring mountains and the vast blue dome of the sky. It took a strong effort of will to shut out the distracting beauty of the place and give her attention to The Turbulent History of the Cévennes.

  The early chapters sketched in the historical background, drawing parallels between the courage and tenacity of the Camisards and their twentieth-century descendants who had shown such resolve and independence of spirit during the German occupation. This was familiar stuff and Melissa found herself skipping through it, pausing here and there to check an unfamiliar word.

  Next came a chapter detailing some of the means of surveillance used by the Vichy Government, which included a systematic form of undercover censorship of communications. There had been widespread tapping of telephones and steaming open of letters, leading to the arrest of hundreds of people suspected of harbouring refugees or dealing in forged documents. This could obviously have been done only with the collaboration of French civil servants; several names were mentioned, but although Melissa read with close attention, she could find no clue to a possible link with Antoinette Gebrec.

  Her concentration was beginning to flag when Fernand appeared carrying a bucket, a squeegee on a long pole and what looked like an outsize shrimping net. He waved to Melissa and called a greeting before commencing a systematic cleaning operation, scrubbing the sides and bottom of the pool and skimming leaves and dead insects from the surface of the water. He had a jaunty air; he whistled a cheerful tune and his movements as he plied the various implements were brisk and confident. It crossed Melissa’s mind that here, at least, was one person who was not in mourning for Alain Gebrec. Fernand was his own man again with no one trying to teach him his job.

  By the time she had, without success, ploughed through yet another chapter, Bonard’s students began emerging for the mid-morning break. She could tell immediately that the strains affecting three of their number had not gone unnoticed. Eyebrows were lifted and glances exchanged as Dora retreated with her cup of coffee to the farthest corner of the terrace and ostentatiously turned her back on everyone. Rose, pale and downcast, made half-hearted responses to Daphne, who was doing her best to cheer her up without making it too obvious.

  Melissa found herself next to Eric in the queue for coffee and biscuits.

  ‘Seems like the end of the great romance,’ he said in a low voice, with a jerk of his head to where Dieter was responding to eager speculation from Janey and Sue as to the reasons for his sudden recall and his probable destination. ‘If I’m not mistaken, the further away they send him, the better he’ll be pleased.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? The little Kettle was coming to the boil and he was scared of getting scalded!’ Eric gave a sly chuckle at his own joke.

  Sipping her coffee, Melissa covertly watched the group. As usual, Dieter exuded an easy, slightly mocking charm, but it was all for the benefit of the two younger women. Not once did he glance at Rose.

  Philippe Bonard, appearing several minutes after the others, immediately headed towards Melissa.

  ‘I have just had a call from Officer Hassan,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It is as you predicted, Melissa. He will arrive shortly with a troop of his men to carry out a search. He also wishes to interview everyone about their movements on Wednesday.’ It was evident that the stress was beginning to tell; Bonard’s face was drawn and his eyes seemed to have lost some of their lustre. ‘Oh, what is the point?’ he went on. ‘What good will it do? Nothing can bring my poor Alain back to life.’

  ‘If he was murdered, you surely wouldn’t wish his killer to escape justice,’ said Melissa gently.

  He bowed his head and she saw his hands clench. ‘No, of course not,’ he whispered. After a moment he looked up and his normal, brisk manner returned. ‘I have informed the officer that he may use the library,’ he said. ‘I must go now and break the news to my students. I fear it will badly disrupt their last day of study.’

  Half an hour or so later Melissa heard a car drive into the courtyard. There was the sound of voices – Hassan’s pompous, measured tones and Marie-Claire’s shrill, staccato whine. Then came the scrunch of feet on gravel; shortly after that a young gendarme appeared, saluted and respectfully requested a few minutes of Madame Craig’s time in the library. Feeling as if she were taking part in the plot of one of her own novels, Melissa followed him indoors.

  From the other side of a table on which were ranged a carafe of water, a glass, a notebook and a manila folder, Hassan rose with a vast smile of welcome. He prayed her to be seated and, with slow and deliberate movements, opened the folder and extracted a typewritten sheet.

  ‘The supplementary report of the médecin légiste,’ he explained. ‘He confirms an injury just behind the jaw, not in itself the prime cause of death, but potentially fatal and sufficient to render the victim immediately unconscious. This injury could – and the report stresses “could” – have been inflicted with an instrument such as a golf-club. The technical term for the point of impact is . . .’ He hesitated, frowned and peered uncertainly at the document.

  ‘The mastoid process?’ Melissa suggested.

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nbsp; Admiration radiated from Hassan’s face like a sunburst. ‘Is there no limit to the extent of your knowledge, Madame?’

  ‘It just so happens that I used this in one of my novels,’ she explained modestly. ‘Perhaps you remember . . .’

  ‘But of course! La Chute d’Humpty Dumpty!’ He pronounced it ‘Ermpitty Dermpitty’, but she managed to keep a straight face. ‘It is essential, therefore,’ he continued as he put the paper away, ‘to find the golf-club that Madame Lavender alleges has been stolen. I have promised Monsieur Bonard to cause as little disturbance as possible, but if the search of the grounds and the base of the cliff reveals nothing, then it will be necessary to check all buildings and vehicles, and question everyone very closely indeed.’ He rubbed his hands together, plainly relishing the prospect.

  ‘What about the button and the pieces of thread?’ enquired Melissa.

  ‘On first examination it appears that they match the victim’s clothing,’ said Hassan gleefully. ‘The indications are that we almost certainly have a case of murder, Madame Craig.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get on with your enquiries.’ Melissa stood up.

  ‘Ah! Just one moment if you please, Madame. There is one question I have to put to you . . . purely a formality in your case, of course but I regret, I can make no exceptions.’ He tugged at his moustache and rolled his eyes as if too embarrassed to utter the words.

  She came to his rescue. ‘You want to know where I went and what I was doing on Wednesday?’ He nodded, dumbly grateful for her understanding and she briefly recounted her movements. He seemed vastly relieved as he penned the details in his notebook; doubtless any suggestion of a flaw in the alibi of one so eminent would have been painful beyond words.

  ‘And one final point, Madame.’ He laid down his pen and leaned across the table towards her. ‘I should like to feel . . . that is, if you could spare me a few minutes of your time later on . . . the thoughts of the creator of the great Nathan Latimer would, I am sure, be of inestimable value in my enquiries.’

  ‘If I can be of any help, you only have to ask.’

  ‘Oh thank you, Madame.’ He hurried to the door and bowed her through it. Just wait till you hear about this, Detective Chief Inspector Harris, thought Melissa as she returned to the terrace and her interrupted reading. A detective who actually asks for my help instead of telling me to stop poking my nose into his cases. Wonders will never cease!

  At midday Fernand set off in the mini-bus to collect Iris and her group. The sight of police vehicles parked along the lane drove all thoughts of Nature and her designs from their heads; they swarmed on to the terrace and buttonholed Melissa, who was helping a silent and subdued Juliette to set up the lunch table. She had barely time to explain the latest developments when Philippe Bonard’s students emerged, most of them in a state of electric excitement.

  ‘We’ve all been interrogated!’ squeaked Janey. Just imagine, one of our group could be a murderer!’ Above the hand that she clapped over her mouth, her eyes rolled like blue marbles.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ scolded Sue. ‘Why would one of us want to kill poor Alain?’

  ‘Well, they can’t possibly suspect one of our group,’ said Jack. ‘We were in the bamboo forest all Wednesday morning – it was Alain who drove us there.’

  ‘You mean, they won’t even want to question us?’ Chrissie spoke in tones of deep disappointment, as if the prospect of being eliminated from the enquiries without even the excitement of a police interview was not at all to her liking.

  ‘You know,’ said Janey. ‘I think it was Fernand who ki . . .’ She broke off, her colour rising, as meaningful glances reminded her of Juliette’s presence.

  There was an embarrassed silence before Mervyn said, ‘Is it quite certain that Alain was murdered?’

  ‘It looks like it – I understand they’re looking for a missing golf-club,’ explained Eric.

  Chrissie’s eyes fell, almost accusingly, on Dora, who was standing apart with her back to the others. ‘They must think that was the murder weapon.’

  ‘They can’t be sure until they find it,’ insisted Mervyn. ‘We mustn’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Oh dear, are you quite, quite sure you didn’t leave it at home, Dora?’ faltered Rose. It was the first time she had spoken and everyone turned to look at her. She was in a pitiable state; the sparkle and the girlish animation that had drawn attention from the crows’ feet and the sagging jaw-line were gone and with them, it seemed, every vestige of self-confidence as well. She looked old, tired and frightened.

  Dora turned. Her expression was grim and her eyelids puffy, as if she had slept badly, but she was perfectly composed as she replied, ‘How many times must I repeat that I know I brought it with me?’ in a strong, level voice. ‘Someone,’ she put a meaningful emphasis on the word and her eyes sought Dieter Erdle, ‘stole it from the boot of the car. When it is found, there will no doubt be finger-prints on it and we shall know who the thief is.’

  Dieter returned her gaze with an air of studied nonchalance. ‘If it is found,’ he said mockingly. He picked up a plate and ran a critical eye over the buffet table. ‘We might as well eat something after Juliette has been to all this trouble,’ he said and began helping himself to food as if everything was perfectly normal.

  ‘I don’t think I could eat a thing,’ wailed Daphne, but she took the plate that her husband pushed into her plump hand and allowed him to pile it with food.

  One by one, the others followed. At one point, Juliette disappeared temporarily in search of more bread; the minute she had gone, Mervyn rounded on Janey.

  ‘You shouldn’t have said that about Fernand, especially in front of Juliette!’

  ‘Oh, what does it matter?’ said Janey sulkily. ‘She doesn’t understand English. As for Fernand – we all know that he didn’t like Alain, and he’s been as cheerful as a cricket since his body was found.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he killed him. Anyway, didn’t he go out on Wednesday morning? He’s probably got an alibi.’

  ‘I believe he went to the supermarket in Alès, but I’m sure Officer Hassan will check everyone’s movements,’ said Melissa.

  All eyes turned back to her. ‘Who do you think did it?’ demanded Chrissie. ‘You’re a crime writer – haven’t you got a theory?’

  ‘Of course she has – several theories, in fact,’ said Dieter. With a forkful of charcuterie poised above his plate, he grinned insolently at Melissa. ‘I’m sure she has discovered that any number of us have a motive, just like in one of her books. Several of us could have done it – Philippe, myself, Dora, even Rose, perhaps – no, no, not Rose, she hasn’t got the nerve.’ Rose winced at this unfeeling remark which, judging by the exchange of glances, several people considered to be in poor taste. ‘I warn you,’ he went on, quite unabashed, ‘that anything you say will be conveyed to the investigating officer and may be used in evidence. Isn’t that right, Melissa?’

  ‘Anything you say, or anything I happen to read,’ she said coolly and had the satisfaction of seeing his smile waver. ‘Seriously, I don’t know any more than the rest of you,’ she went on, ‘and I think Mervyn is absolutely right, it isn’t certain yet that Alain was murdered and we shouldn’t go jumping to conclusions.’

  This pronouncement seemed to put a damper on further discussion and people developed a sudden interest in the contents of their plates. The lunch break was just coming to an end when Philippe Bonard came out of the house, accompanied by a short, plump man of fifty or so clad in a shapeless grey suit that contrasted oddly with his own faultless tailoring.

  ‘Mesdames et Messieurs, I present my colleague Roger Darmel. He has just arrived from Avignon and will take over the administration of the Centre for the time being.’ Bonard’s eyes sought Melissa and he led the newcomer over to her. ‘I wonder, Melissa,’ he said hurriedly, ‘as it is time for the classes to reassemble, if you would be kind enough to explain to Monsieur Darmel the reason for the police presence
and then escort him to the office of Marie-Claire? Madame Craig has the ear of the investigating officer on account of her reputation as a crime novelist,’ he explained, and hurried away.

  Monsieur Darmel took out a handkerchief and mopped sweat from his glistening bald head. He eyed Melissa with a mixture of mistrust and disapproval.

  ‘I regret, I am not familiar with the genre,’ he said stiffly, ‘and I am not accustomed to having contact with the police.’ His tone implied that those who had such contact were not the kind of people a respectable citizen expected to meet in his daily life.

  ‘This has all been very distressing for Monsieur Bonard,’ said Melissa. ‘Until yesterday, it was believed that Alain Gebrec took his own life. That was bad enough, but now there is talk of murder.’

  ‘Murder!’ Monsieur Darmel’s sallow face turned a shade paler and his mouth fell open. ‘Who? Why?’ He plied the handkerchief again in shock and bewilderment.

  ‘Nothing is known for certain. The police are searching for a possible weapon.’

  ‘Monsieur Bonard implied that you have information from the police.’

  ‘A little.’ Melissa outlined the facts, but offered no opinions. ‘Of course, I only met Alain last Sunday, so I have really no idea what kind of man he was. Did you know him well, Monsieur?’ she added casually.

  ‘Me?’ Darmel licked his lips. ‘No, no, hardly at all, only as a colleague, you understand, not at all in our private lives.’ The words tumbled out in a nervous rush as if he felt himself under interrogation. ‘I mean, we had contact, attended meetings together from time to time, that sort of thing, but our departments were separate, quite separate.’

  ‘But you must have some impressions of him?’

  ‘I assure you, I never considered the man as anyone but a business associate.’