Murder on the Clifftops

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Then you will take an apéritif with me at six o’clock this evening?’ There was a slight but unmistakable hesitation before she added, ‘Your friend, also, if she wishes.’

  ‘I’m not sure if she’s free, but I’ll come with pleasure.’

  By the time Melissa returned to the terrace, the students had disappeared and Juliette was removing the tea-things. With unusual abruptness, she declined Melissa’s offer of help, hurrying into the house with the laden tray as if working against the clock. She looked exhausted; her face had the colour and texture of wax and the lines on either side of her nose and mouth had deepened. Melissa imagined her lying awake at night, worrying on her brother’s behalf. Perhaps she too had her doubts about his alibi. Could there be a flaw in it, as Iris had suggested? Was Hassan waiting for him to betray himself, playing a cat-and-mouse game with him, a game in which she herself was an involuntary participant?

  There was an hour to wait before classes ended and still a couple of chapters of the book unread, but she found herself unable to settle. Her swimming costume and towel were in the car and on impulse she went to fetch them. Her head was aching with too much reading; a swim would help her to relax and might clear her brain.

  Owing no doubt to Fernand’s attentions that morning, the water was colder than she had expected and after ten minutes she was glad to get out, dry herself and lie on a chaise-longue in the sun. Within a very short time she was dozing. She began to dream. In her dream, she was playing golf with Dora. Suddenly, Dora began running, across the garden, out through the gate and up the path to the belvedere. She was calling as she ran and at first Melissa could not hear what she was saying so she ran after her. When she caught up with her, Dora gasped, ‘My nine iron, he’s got my nine iron, he’s taken it to the secret refuge!’ and raced headlong towards the edge of the cliff. Melissa tried to scream a warning, but in the way of nightmares she could make no sound. Then, with a start, she awoke.

  She was too hot, the sun was scorching and she hadn’t bothered to apply any sun-cream. Half stupefied, she gathered up her towel and shoes and went back to the changing-room for a shower before getting dressed. The effects of the dream were still on her, the feeling of helpless terror as Dora plunged along the path that ended in that awful drop . . . in the act of turning on the water, Melissa’s hand froze.

  ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed aloud. ‘Not that! Please, not that!’

  She wanted time to think, and time was very short. In ten minutes classes would finish and Iris would be waiting to be driven back to the auberge. She had to make up her mind what she was going to do, whether to tell Hassan about the secret refuge, knowing that, if Dora’s golf-club had been hidden there after being used to kill Alain Gebrec, it pointed to the guilt of only one person. He would, of course, have thrown it into that hideous black void at the edge of the cave, believing that it would remain concealed there forever, but an experienced climber with the right equipment would soon be able to recover it. If it was there. If it really had been stolen, as Dora claimed, if it had been used as the murder weapon, if . . . if . . . So far from clearing after her dip, Melissa’s thoughts were like a tangled skein of thread with no end and no beginning, impossible to unravel.

  Returning to put away her swimming things she noticed two gaps where cars had been parked. The first, she quickly realised, had been occupied by the police car in which Officer Hassan and his young winger had arrived. So they had gone; well, that solved, or at least shelved, her immediate problem. Mentally, she ticked off the remaining vehicles and came to the conclusion that the second absentee was Dieter Erdle.

  The students began emerging from the house. First came Iris with her group clustered round her, apparently discussing an arrangement to meet. Then they separated amid a chorus of, ‘See you later’, climbed into their respective cars and drove away. Only Jack remained to help Iris load her equipment into the back of the Golf. Watching their approach, Melissa thought how relaxed her friend appeared, compared with her earlier anxiety. Something must have happened.

  ‘Heard the news? Dora Lavender’s been arrested,’ said Jack.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Melissa. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Philippe told us when he came to our classroom to say goodbye.’

  ‘Have they found the weapon?’

  ‘No idea. Philippe didn’t know any details.’

  ‘Poor Rose, she must be in a dreadful state.’

  ‘Here come the others now,’ said Iris. ‘We might learn a bit more.’

  It was a subdued and silent group that approached. Rose was being half led, half supported by Daphne, who had one sturdy arm round her shoulders while Eric walked on her other side. She appeared to be in deep shock, her face was ashen and her mouth twitched. Almost unnoticed, Sue and Janey murmured discreet goodbyes and left.

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard?’ said Eric.

  ‘About Dora’s arrest, yes, but nothing else,’ said Melissa.

  ‘That’s all we know. Hassan sent for us all again after tea, one by one, of course. He kept Philippe longer than the rest of us, but he came back eventually. Then it was Dora’s turn, and we never saw her again. It was Juliette who brought Philippe the news that she had been taken away in the police car.’

  ‘Have they found her golf-club?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Where’s Erdle?’ asked Jack, glancing round as if he had only just missed him.

  ‘Gone.’ Daphne spat out the word in a mixture of fury and contempt. ‘The minute Hassan had finished with him he said goodbye to Philippe and shook his hand, gave us all a parting wave and left.’ Her disgust at this cavalier treatment of Rose was clear and she gave her an encouraging squeeze. ‘Forget about him, dear, you’re well rid of him,’ she said and Melissa heard herself saying, ‘Daphne’s right,’ thinking that she herself would have expressed the sentiment more strongly.

  ‘What will happen to Dora?’ asked Rose in a creaky whisper, looking straight at Melissa. ‘What will they do to her?’

  ‘Ask her questions, that’s all.’

  ‘What right has he got to arrest her?’ demanded Eric. ‘Isn’t there anything we can do?’ He too looked to Melissa for an answer.

  ‘Hassan must have got permission from the proc to detain her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Procureur de la République – a sort of senior magistrate. Try not to worry too much, Rose. If they can’t get Dora to change her story, or find some evidence to break it, they’ll have to let her go in a few hours.’

  ‘What beats me is why they should suspect her in the first place,’ said Eric. ‘I mean, what possible motive could she have had for killing Alain? She hardly knew him.’

  ‘Mistaken identity,’ said Melissa, and briefly explained.

  ‘Eric, let’s not hang around here any longer,’ said Daphne impatiently. ‘Rose is exhausted, she must lie down.’

  ‘Of course dear.’ He turned to the others. ‘We’re staying in a rented apartment and we’re taking her back with us,’ he explained, and followed Daphne and Rose.

  ‘I’ll see you presently,’ said Jack as he got into his car.

  ‘Right,’ said Iris. She climbed into the Golf and fastened her seat belt.

  Melissa started the engine and followed the others out through the gate. She waited for an explanation of Jack’s parting remark, but, as none came, she asked casually, ‘Do I take it you have plans for this evening?’

  ‘Meeting the group for a farewell drink at the Lion d’Or. Thought of asking Jack to join us for dinner at the auberge later. Any objection?’ A hoarse catch in the voice betrayed Iris’s embarrassment.

  ‘No objection at all,’ said Melissa heartily. ‘At least, not to Jack and dinner. I’m sorry you’ve arranged to go out beforehand though.’ She explained about Madame Gebrec’s invitation.

  ‘Pity,’ said Iris. ‘Can’t be helped though. You can make the right noises.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

 
‘What about Dora? How long can they hold her?’

  ‘I’m not all that well clued up on French procedure, but my understanding is they’ll have to let her go after six or seven hours unless they can break her story. It might be what they call “liberté conditionelle”, which mean she couldn’t leave the area until either they’re satisfied she’s in the clear or they’ve got enough evidence to bring a charge.’

  ‘Banana Split must be pretty sure she did it. Do you think so?’

  The question revived all the doubt and unease that had been driven to the back of Melissa’s mind by the news of Dora’s arrest. Unless, under Hassan’s ‘persuasion’, Dora confessed to the killing and revealed the whereabouts of the missing golf-club, was she not bound to betray Fernand and suggest the secret refuge as its possible hiding place? She wished with all her heart that he had never taken her there.

  ‘Well, do you?’ Iris broke into her reverie.

  ‘I think she’s capable of it. And if she did, and she’s managed to hide that golf-club where it won’t be found, she could just get away with it. Because,’ Melissa swung the car into the car park at the Auberge de la Fontaine and switched off the engine, ‘if anyone can stand up to Hassan’s “interrogation”, it’s Dora Lavender.’

  ‘Well, at least it means Philippe isn’t a suspect any more,’ said Iris with evident satisfaction.

  Melissa did not have the heart to point out that this was not necessarily the case, and changed the subject. ‘I suppose Madame Gebrec will want to know how the enquiry is going,’ she said as they made their way up to their room.

  ‘You going to tell her about Dora’s arrest?’

  ‘Iris, I can’t!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Think about it. Would you like to tell a woman her son might have been murdered by mistake?’

  Twenty

  Antoinette Gebrec had made a supreme effort to put her grief to one side to receive her guest. Her manner was composed, her grooming flawless, her blue silk dress simple but elegant. Only the charcoal smudges under her eyes told of the hours of sorrow and sleeplessness.

  ‘It is good of you to come,’ she said, with a brave smile that was far more moving than tears. ‘Your friend, she is not with you?’ Her tone implied relief rather than disappointment.

  ‘I’m afraid she already had an engagement that I didn’t know about when you phoned,’ said Melissa. ‘She sends her apologies.’

  ‘It is no matter.’

  The sun had gone round and the shutters outside the salon windows stood open, but the daylight did nothing to dispel the overfurnished appearance that Melissa remembered from her earlier visits. A space had been cleared among the clutter of ornaments and knick-knacks on the buffet for a silver tray bearing crystal goblets and a pale green glass bottle of an unusual spiral shape.

  ‘May I pour for you some wine?’

  It was Melissa’s habit, when driving, to drink only mineral water or fruit juice, but there was something about the arrangement of the goblets and the bottle, its cool surface filmed with dew, that struck her as almost symbolic. The cork had already been drawn and she sensed that it was in some way important to Madame Gebrec that they should drink together.

  ‘A little wine would be lovely,’ she replied and saw at once that it had been the right thing to say.

  Madame Gebrec took up the bottle as if it were a sacred relic. ‘This wine,’ she said softly, ‘was the favourite of my son.’ She poured some into two of the goblets and handed one to Melissa. ‘Your very good health, Madame!’

  ‘And yours!’ Melissa responded, wondering why Madame Gebrec had chosen to speak in English. Perhaps she felt that the effort of concentration might provide a distraction, a temporary relief from her burden of sorrow. In the face of such courage, Melissa felt a sense of humility. More to conceal her emotion than out of any claim to be an oenophile, she slowly rolled the wine over her tongue before swallowing and nodding approval. ‘Your son was a connoisseur,’ she said solemnly, and was rewarded by a smile of almost unearthly radiance.

  ‘Come, let us sit on the terrace for a while. The paintings, they are upstairs – we will see them presently.’

  For a few minutes they sipped their wine in silence. There was still warmth in the sun, but the oppressive heat of the day had passed and a light breeze stirred the tangle of clematis on the pergola overhead.

  After a while, Madame Gebrec said quietly, ‘I am so grateful, Madame, that you were able to persuade the police of the justice of my statement that Alain was murdered.’

  ‘It wasn’t entirely my doing.’ Melissa had hoped to avoid the subject of the police enquiry, but plainly it was not to be. All she could hope for was to avoid any mention of the fact that Dora Lavender was in custody.

  ‘Ah, you are too modest. Did you know that the investigating officer came to see me this morning?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Melissa felt rather miffed at the realisation that Hassan had taken her only partly into his confidence. ‘What did he want?’

  For a few moments Madame Gebrec sat motionless, her wine cupped in both hands, her coral fingertips resting like delicate flower petals on the glass.

  ‘He asked me what I knew about Alain’s . . . relationships,’ she said at length.

  ‘Did he question you about anyone in particular? Monsieur Bonard, for example?’

  ‘Yes.’ The contents of the goblet became the object of careful scrutiny and there was an uneasy silence before she spoke again. ‘I know that Monsieur Bonard loved Alain. Alain had an affection for him, but I always believed it was the sentiment of a son for his father. In fact, when speaking of him he used often to say, “Papa Bonard”.’

  ‘Your friend, Madame Delon, told me that your husband was killed during the war.’

  Madame Gebrec’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but her reply came quietly enough. ‘That is true.’

  ‘So, as Alain never knew his own father, it would be natural for him to become attached to an older man like Monsieur Bonard, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And Alain never said anything to suggest . . . a different kind of relationship between them?’

  ‘No, and I assure you there was none.’ Abruptly, Madame Gebrec stood up and began pacing to and fro on the terrace. She swung round to face Melissa and it was clear from her expression that the subject was painful to her. ‘Alain had many younger . . . friends. I think you already know this.’

  ‘But perhaps Monsieur Bonard would have liked . . . has it occurred to you that he might have been jealous of these young men?’

  ‘Madame Craig, Monsieur Bonard is a kind man who did much to help my son in his career. I cannot believe that Alain . . .’ Her voice faltered; for the first time that evening, suppressed emotion bubbled to the surface. Melissa remembered some of the words Madame Delon had used to describe Alain, despite his mother’s protests: hard, ruthless, ambitious. Such a man might not scruple to accept his employer’s advances if he could thereby further his own career.

  ‘Would it surprise you,’ she said quietly, ‘to learn that Bonard is a suspect?’

  ‘No.’ The monosyllable was scarcely more than a sigh of resignation.

  ‘It has been suggested that Alain might have been attacked with some heavy metal object such as a golf-club,’ said Melissa. ‘The problem is that, although the police have carried out an intensive search, they haven’t been able to find such a weapon.’

  ‘There is a cave under the cliff. Perhaps it is hidden there?’

  Melissa stared in astonishment. ‘I have heard of the existence of this cave,’ she said cautiously, ‘but I thought its whereabouts were a secret.’

  ‘Bah, all the people in Roziac know, although they pretend they do not.’

  ‘How did you come to hear about it?’

  ‘Alain told me. When he and Monsieur Bonard first visited Les Châtaigniers, the agent told them of it and showed them the way to the entrance.’

  ‘Did they act
ually go into the cave?’

  ‘Indeed, no. Alain said it is too dangerous. Monsieur Bonard feared an accident if anyone should attempt to enter it and made it, as you say, out of the bounds. Alas, the poor young Wolfgang learned somehow of its existence . . .’ Madame Gebrec broke off and a look of horror dawned in her eyes. ‘Madame Craig, you do not suppose that Monsieur Bonard . . .’ As if the shock of the sudden suspicion was too much to cope with, she suddenly lapsed into French. ‘Is it possible that he deliberately lured that poor young man to his death because he was jealous of his affair with Alain?’

  ‘It’s hard to believe he’d do such a thing,’ said Melissa thoughtfully. ‘And in any case . . .’ She was about to say, ‘Access to the cave is easy enough provided you aren’t scared of heights,’ but remembered just in time that the comment would invite questions she would rather not answer and changed it to, ‘The police are satisfied that Klein’s death was an accident – part of the cliff gave way under his weight.’

  ‘I am glad to hear you say it.’

  Melissa’s head was buzzing, but it had nothing to do with the wine. For the second time within as many hours her thoughts had moved off in a new direction; conflicting messages flashed through her brain until it seemed the interior of her skull must become red-hot. She thought of Iris, happily deluding herself that Philippe Bonard was in the clear, and was thankful that she had been spared hearing of this latest development from a stranger. She longed to be on her own so that she might think logically and quietly, but there was still one question she needed to ask.

  ‘Did you tell Officer Hassan about the secret . . . the cave?’

  ‘No, why should I? He did not tell me his men were looking for a weapon.’

  ‘Just what did he tell you?’

  For a moment, Madame Gebrec looked almost amused. ‘He told me nothing,’ she said. ‘He asked only questions. But I talk too much about my own problem. You are here to look at pictures. Come.’

  Melissa had totally forgotten the pictures. With an effort, she dragged her mind back to the purpose of her visit and followed Madame Gebrec upstairs to her study. In contrast to the downstairs rooms, this one was severely functional. On a plain black wooden desk were a word processor, an adjustable metal lamp, a telephone, and a container for pens and paper-clips in heavy smoke-grey glass. Against the left-hand wall stood a filing cabinet and a bookcase, and there was a second bookcase on the right. There was no other furniture, no flowers or ornaments, the only seating a single typist’s chair. Plainly, this was a sanctum to which visitors were not normally invited.