Murder on the Clifftops

by Betty Rowlands

  The wide, uncurtained window gave a splendid view over the Gardon, its waters shining in the early evening light as it made its sinuous way southwards from the mountains. Three of the walls were bare; on the one opposite the window hung a series of paintings in simple modern frames, all apparently by the same artist and arranged in careful symmetry.

  Melissa turned to study them; as she did so, she saw Madame Gebrec’s eyes on her. There was pride in them, but there was something else as well – a pleading, almost a hunger. They were saying more eloquently than speech that this small collection represented to its possessor something far greater than the sum of its parts. Perhaps it was the work of a former lover, all that remained of a relationship still precious but long past. For some reason that she herself might have been at a loss to explain, she had been willing, in the midst of her grief, to share her treasure with someone she hardly knew. Now she waited, almost fearfully, for a verdict.

  Melissa’s initial feeling was disappointment. The paintings were executed with care and craftsmanship, but even her comparatively untutored eye could see that they lacked originality and did not fulfil the promise of the single canvas that hung in the salon.

  Madame Gebrec neither moved nor spoke; almost, it seemed, she had ceased to breathe, but Melissa sensed that inwardly she was crying out, ‘Please admire them, say they are good, say they are beautiful!’ as if more than anything in the world she needed the comfort of hearing praise for what she held most dear.

  Recognition of that need injected an enthusiasm that was not entirely genuine into Melissa’s voice as she exclaimed, ‘But these are lovely!’

  ‘They please you?’ The words gushed out on a wave of relief. ‘Truly?’

  ‘They’re quite charming . . . really delightful.’ It did not matter that to a detached observer the words would sound trite, possibly insincere; they were what Madame Gebrec needed to hear. Iris would have given her an honest opinion, pointing out, in her laconic but outspoken way, the weaknesses as well as the merits of the artist’s work – one more reason, Melissa thought wryly, to be thankful she was not there. It was not a detached, professional assessment of the collection that was wanted.

  So she made a show of scrutinising the canvases and of praising some feature of each – the execution of a patch of cloud, a contrasting pattern of light and shade or the grouping of figures round a market stall – while Madame Gebrec hung on every word, her face glowing with pleasure and gratitude.

  ‘Thank you for letting me see them,’ said Melissa at length.

  ‘I am so happy that you like them.’ Madame Gebrec opened the study door and indicated with a gesture that the viewing was at an end. ‘They are all I have left now.’ The final words were barely audible.

  Back in the salon, Melissa went to look once more at the picture of the Porte des Cévennes which had caught her eye on her first visit. ‘I suppose this one’s your favourite?’

  Madame Gebrec nodded. ‘It is, I think, the best. Do you agree?’

  ‘Yes, I do, it is excellent.’ Melissa peered at the date, inscribed in the corner. ‘1944 – later than the others.’

  ‘Yes. Those upstairs he painted for himself. This one he painted expressly for me.’

  ‘I wonder why he didn’t sign any of them?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Madame Gebrec pointed to a corner of the canvas and said in a low voice, ‘That small emblem, beside the date – that was his “signature”.’

  ‘He signed all his pictures in that way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It looks like a pull from a blind-cord,’ commented Melissa. In response to Madame Gebrec’s blank stare she mimed the action of pulling down a roller blind, but there was no answering smile. Fearing that she had made a faux pas, she glanced at her watch. ‘Madame, it’s time I was leaving. I’ve arranged to meet some friends for dinner.’

  ‘I am grateful to you for coming.’ Madame Gebrec hesitated, as if there was something more that she wanted to say, but was doubtful how to phrase it or how it would be received. In her uncertainty, she turned and fiddled with the switch controlling the light above the painting. ‘The artist . . . he was very dear to me,’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘I guessed as much,’ murmured Melissa, ashamed now of her flippancy.

  ‘He brought me . . . for a little while . . . great happiness.’

  Unable to think of a suitable reply, Melissa held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Madame, and thank you once again,’ she said, her voice suddenly husky.

  ‘It is I who thank you. Come, I will open the gate for you.’

  As she drove away, Melissa heard the clang of metal on metal – the sound of Madame Gebrec locking herself into her solitary world.

  Twenty-One

  It was with considerable relief that Melissa noticed Jack Hammond’s car parked outside the auberge and her relief increased when she found him sitting alone on the terrace, a glass of Stella Artois in one hand and a book in the other. He was so absorbed that he did not notice her until she slid into the chair beside him.

  He greeted her with a cheery smile. ‘Hi, Melissa, I’ve got your book.’ He held up her copy of The Turbulent History of the Cévennes. ‘Iris thought it’d keep me amused – she’s got a great sense of humour! You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m impressed that your French is up to it.’

  ‘It isn’t really,’ he admitted. ‘I’m just looking at the pictures. Did anything strike you about this one by any chance?’

  ‘To be honest, I’ve hardly glanced at any of them. I’ve been more interested in the text.’

  The book was open at a double-page spread of photographs; Jack pointed to one of a youngish man with a high forehead and thick wavy hair. ‘That one. Here, I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Thanks, I’d love one of those.’ Wearily, she gestured towards the empty bottle on the table. While Jack caught the eye of one of the Gauthier girls, who were bustling to and fro in the background, she searched the legend at the bottom of the page. It took her several seconds to link the picture with the name: Julius Eiche.

  ‘Looks a bit like young Erdle, don’t you think?’ said Jack, peering over her shoulder.

  Melissa was scanning the other photographs and linking them with the names. ‘I think they’ve got a couple of them mixed up,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Look at this one.’ She showed him a portrait of a heavy-featured man with deep-set eyes.

  ‘Looks like Rudolf Hess,’ commented Jack. ‘What about him?’

  ‘According to the book, that is Pastor Heinrich Erdle.’

  Jack’s brow crumpled. ‘Some relation to Rose’s toy-boy?’

  ‘His uncle. I got it out of him this afternoon.’ Melissa repeated their conversation. ‘My guess is that that one,’ she tapped the photograph that had caught Jack’s eye with her forefinger, ‘is Heinrich Erdle. I agree, there is a resemblance.’

  ‘You reckon this sinister-looking character is Julius Eiche?’

  ‘Well, he looks more like a spy than a respectable reverend, doesn’t he – and vice versa?’

  ‘Mmm . . . perhaps. You can’t always go by appearances. You say Eiche betrayed Uncle Heinrich to the Gestapo?’

  ‘I don’t think anything was ever proved. Let’s see what they say about him.’ She turned to the index at the back of the book, but it slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Jack as he straightened up from retrieving it. ‘You look a bit washed out.’

  ‘I . . . it’s been quite a day,’ she said shakily. The problem that had been churning in her brain during the drive back from Alès, temporarily superseded by the photographs, had suddenly resurfaced. ‘By the way, where’s Iris?’

  ‘Standing on her head in a corner somewhere, I believe,’ said Jack with a chuckle. ‘She said she’d be half an hour, and that was,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘near
ly fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘That’s good. I’d like to talk to you before she comes down.’

  ‘Something bothering you?’ He gave her an anxious look. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Would you like something stronger than beer?’

  ‘No, beer’ll be fine.’ She reached for the glass that Brigitte had set in front of her and took several long swallows. Then she put it down, leaned her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. She was trembling; she had not realised until that moment how dog-tired she was.

  ‘Are you ill? Shall I go and fetch Iris?’ said Jack in alarm.

  ‘No!’ she said sharply, grabbing at his arm as he half rose. ‘I need your advice. I think I know who killed Alain Gebrec and it’s going to be a blow for Iris. I don’t know how to tell her.’

  ‘Philippe Bonard?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘Yes.’ She told him of her conversation with Madame Gebrec and the revelation that Bonard had known all along of the cave under the cliff. His face registered first puzzlement, then surprise, and finally consternation as she admitted having visited Fernand’s ‘secret refuge’.

  ‘I’m not surprised that Iris worries about you if that’s the sort of thing you get up to,’ he said grimly. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell your gendarme as soon as you knew he was hunting for a weapon?’

  ‘It didn’t enter my head at the time that it might be hidden in the cave. In any case, I thought the only person who knew where it was and how to reach it was Fernand, and he had an alibi.’

  ‘Which could be phoney,’ Jack pointed out.

  ‘Fernand didn’t kill Alain,’ said Melissa stubbornly.

  ‘You reckon Philippe Bonard did?’

  ‘It looks very much like it, don’t you agree? Either through jealousy or some other motive that we don’t know about. The indications are that under that rather willowy exterior, Alain Gebrec was pretty hard nosed. Maybe he was blackmailing Bonard. Or maybe . . .’

  ‘Maybe you should just call Officer Hassan, tell him what you’ve learned and let him do the investigating. It is his job, after all.’

  ‘Meaning I should keep my nose out of it? You sound like Ken Harris,’ said Melissa. ‘My policeman friend,’ she added in response to Jack’s look of enquiry.

  ‘Well, you did ask for my advice.’ He gave a disarming grin and patted her hand. ‘I’m sure Hassan will be very appreciative of your help,’ he said in the emollient tone he had used to such good effect when dealing with a tearful Rose and an aggressive Dora.

  Melissa felt her taut nerves start to relax. She drained her glass and put it down. Jack was right, of course but . . . ‘It’s so hard to picture Philippe crawling along that awful ledge,’ she said. ‘It seems completely out of character . . . he’s so sophisticated, always looks so immaculate . . .’ Perhaps after all they were barking up the wrong tree. If Madame Gebrec had her facts right, any number of people could have . . . oh God! she thought, I’m shilly-shallying again.

  ‘On the contrary, it would have been a doddle for him,’ Jack was saying dryly. ‘Speleology was his hobby as a young man.’

  ‘And he gave Juliette his clothes to sponge and press that very morning.’ Melissa put a hand to her mouth as she recalled the scene in the kitchen, the hiss of the hot iron on damp cloth, the spurt of steam.

  ‘You’d better make that phone call before Iris turns up,’ said Jack. ‘She’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘You’ll break it to her gently?’

  He made a gesture of impatience. ‘You leave Iris to me. Just get on with that call.’ There was a note of authority in his voice that brought Melissa unquestioningly to her feet.

  A bored-sounding gendarme informed her that Officer Hassan was not available and suggested that she call tomorrow. When he seemed reluctant to take a message, she used to good effect some of the argot she had learned during her student days, upon which he grudgingly demanded what he was supposed to say.

  ‘Just ask him to call me at the Auberge de la Fontaine as soon as possible,’ she said crisply. ‘Tell him it’s urgent, extremely urgent, do you understand?’

  When she returned to the terrace, she found Iris and Jack watching the light fade over the Porte des Cévennes. They stood close together, their shoulders almost touching. Iris had changed into a Laura Ashley print dress; under the soft overhead lights her hair shone from brushing. She’s come to terms with things, thought Melissa joyfully, she knows her yen for Philippe is a dead duck and she’s responding to Jack’s admiration like a plant responds to sunshine and rain. It was the first truly happy moment in a long and stressful day.

  ‘Jack’s told me the news,’ said Iris. ‘Banana Split’s got a job on his hands.’

  ‘You mean, organising the search? It shouldn’t be too difficult, given the right equipment.’

  ‘Not that. Checking the prints if the golf-club’s found. Thought you said half of Roziac knows about the cave.’

  ‘Oh, er, yes, I see what you mean.’ Melissa caught Jack’s eye and when Iris turned back to admire the view she returned his wink. Full marks for diplomacy, she thought. It wouldn’t lessen the eventual hurt if Bonard did turn out to be the murderer, but for this evening at least Iris could relax and be happy – and Jack would be there to give comfort when it was needed.

  ‘I haven’t actually spoken to Hassan yet,’ she told them. ‘He was questioning a suspect and couldn’t be interrupted. He’ll call back when he’s free.’

  ‘I wonder if the suspect’s Dora?’ said Jack. The three of them exchanged guilty glances. The latest developments had pushed poor Dora’s predicament to the back of everyone’s mind.

  ‘Perhaps we should have contacted the British Consul,’ said Jack, looking worried.

  Iris cackled. ‘On a Friday afternoon? Got to be joking.’

  ‘We ought to do something to help. What do you think, Melissa?’

  ‘If she’s charged, she’ll need a lawyer, of course, but my guess is that once Hassan hears what I’ve got to say, he’ll realise he’s made a mistake and let her go.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Iris. ‘Let’s have dinner.’

  They were sitting on the terrace with coffee and liqueurs when, without warning, Dora appeared. Her face was drawn, but she stood as erect as a guardsman with her chin tilted proudly upwards. For a moment they sat gaping in astonishment; then Jack leapt to his feet and offered his chair.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘The restaurant is about to close, but Monsieur Gauthier is getting me something to eat.’ She cut across the barrage of questions by saying curtly to Melissa, ‘Officer Hassan wishes to see you. He’s in reception,’ before swinging round and striding back indoors without another word.

  Madame Gauthier was on her usual perch behind the desk. She peered over her glasses at Melissa and made a stabbing movement with her pen towards the corner where Hassan was waiting, her scowl indicating that she held ‘les Anglais’ entirely responsible for the upheaval in her well-ordered establishment.

  The big gendarme looked tired and dispirited. It cost him an effort to get to his feet and the minute Melissa was seated he slumped back on his chair, his arms resting on his knees and his head bent. Everything about him drooped, including his moustache.

  ‘I see you’ve released Mrs Lavender,’ Melissa remarked.

  He spread his hands and his shoulders climbed round his ears.

  ‘What could I do? She refuses to change her story. My commandant is not pleased, but without evidence I am helpless.’

  ‘You received my message?’

  ‘Yes. Have you something important to tell me?’

  ‘Very important. I told your man it was urgent.’

  ‘Indeed?’ It was clear from his air of surprise that her outburst on the telephone had not been entirely effective. ‘What have you learned, Madame?’

  ‘You have no doubt heard of a secret cave which the Maquis used as a refuge during the Occupation?
’

  ‘I heard rumours when I was enquiring into the accident to Wolfgang Klein,’ said Hassan guardedly, ‘but I have spoken to no one who will confirm its existence.’ He shook his head dejectedly. ‘The people here, they do not like to talk to the police.’

  ‘According to Madame Gebrec, it lies under the belvedere at Les Châtaigniers.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Interest flickered briefly in the mournful brown eyes, then died. ‘Excuse me, Madame, but I do not see how this helps my enquiries. It is surely not possible that Madame Lavender knows of this cave?’

  ‘No, but many people in Roziac do . . . including Monsieur Bonard.’

  The change in Hassan’s demeanour was instantaneous. He sat upright, gazing at Melissa like a dog with its eye on a biscuit. ‘You are certain of this, Madame?’

  ‘Quite certain.’ She repeated what she had learned from Madame Gebrec.

  Hassan snatched his notebook from his pocket and scribbled furiously. ‘The weapon, it must be concealed in this cave! I shall take action immediately!’ he declared, then slapped his forehead in exasperation. ‘Bah, I was forgetting, Bonard is away from home. I gave him permission to travel to Avignon on business.’

  ‘No doubt you know where to find him?’

  ‘Naturally, but it will take time to arrange for his return to Roziac . . .’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The search will have to wait until tomorrow morning.’

  It was on the tip of Melissa’s tongue to inform him that an attempt to reach the cave in darkness would in any case be extremely hazardous, but she checked herself in time. He might insist on being shown the entrance and perhaps station an overnight guard. She hated the fact that it had become necessary, in the cause of justice, for the police to invade Fernand’s beloved secret refuge and shrank from being openly associated with the operation. As it was, she felt like a traitor.