Murder in Lascaux

by Betsy Draine

  As I undressed, the day’s jangled images churned in my mind: a bloody bird, a strangled corpse, a police inspector who pegged one of us as a murderer. But it was the glowering portrait that lingered as I slipped into a troubled sleep.

  4

  IWAS TRYING TO WAKE, but I couldn’t get out of the dream. I was running in the cave—running away, in the dark, from something awful. “Toby,” I tried to cry, but no sound came out, and he didn’t appear. Instead, a red bull leaped out from the wall and into my path. I had to spin round, to seek a route of escape. What I feared was there—the man who was chasing me, coming ever closer. I lowered my head and tried to charge him blindly, as if I were the bull and equipped with horns. But as I reached him, he pulled me up by my shoulders, and we stood face to face. It was the man in the portrait. His eyes were widened and staring, and he was bending forward to kiss me. “No!” I tried to cry, but the sound was muffled, as his whole face smashed into mine. I bucked back, with an effort of my arms—and found myself lifting my head from my pillow.

  “Whoa, kitten, you’re having a nightmare,” Toby said gently, just coming out of his own deep sleep. “It’s all right now.”

  I raised my head toward the thickly curtained windows, to see if there was light coming from the sides. There was—a little. It was past dawn, then. The outlines of our room slowly came into focus: the foot of a four-poster bed, a fireplace, an old armoire, a small table and two chairs, a standing lamp, the doorway to the bathroom. My glow-in-the-dark alarm clock read five after six. Too early for breakfast. Marianne had arranged that guests would be served in their rooms at eight thirty. But my heart was beating so fast that I would never get back to sleep. Toby seemed to surmise all this from behind closed lids. “Take your shower and wake me at eight,” he grumbled.

  By the time Madame Martin arrived with our tray, we were both dressed and ready to let her in. “Bonjour, Monsieur-Dame,” she chirped, in the singsong tone we’d learn was part of the local patois. Putting down the silver tray on a table by the window, she drew back the rose-colored curtains to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the front lawn. “Soon the mornings will be warm enough for breakfast on the terrace, but not today.”

  As she chattered away, I realized Madame Martin was younger than I had first thought—perhaps in her sixties, which made sense if she had been Marianne’s friend when they were girls in her mother’s kitchen. She looked significantly older, though, because of an arthritic stoop and silver hair. But her face was round and youthful, with a playful smile.

  “In Périgord we like to let the sun get up over the hills before we leave our sheets. Except, of course, for old folks like me. If you are ever up early and want your coffee, just come into the kitchen. I’ll be there.”

  Toby thanked her. “You may see my wife, but not me. I’m a late sleeper.”

  “Understood, Monsieur,” she grinned.

  Late sleeper is right. How Toby gets anything done when we’re at home is beyond me. He sleeps until nine or ten, reads two newspapers from front to back, and rarely leaves the house before noon; yet he runs a successful business.

  As Madame Martin set out the breakfast, she added, “The walnut bread is my mother’s recipe, and the croissants come from Monsieur Luco, the best pâtissier in the region. Bon appétit. Madame Marianne asked me to remind you to be ready for Monsieur Daglan at ten.”

  That threw a gloom over the coffee cups, as Madame Martin departed. Trying to distract myself from the prospect of another interrogation by the inspector, I asked Toby to tell me how his dinner conversations had gone. We had tumbled into bed without having had a chance to discuss the evening. The short version (and Toby’s versions are always short before he’s had his breakfast) was that Dotty had been flirty, Lily sulky, and David lawyerly.

  “Lawyerly in what way?” I wondered. (I resolved to find out more about the flirty later.)

  “He was bent on grilling the old baron about the family history. And the baron loved it. He talked about which baron begat which, and what battles each one fought in, from the Hundred Years War to the First World War.”

  “What about World War II?”

  “They did get to that. Something about the baron serving for a year and then being sent back to manage affairs here. I wasn’t quite following the French by then. I’d had one too many glasses of Cahors, and David speaks French pretty damn fast.” Toby almost never gets annoyed by people. Either it was now too early in the morning for him to give a civil report on last night’s dinner, or he was a little jealous of David’s language skills. I’d be able to tell by the end of the day, but for now I’d better leave Toby alone. So per our usual morning routine, I went for a walk and left him to his second cup of coffee.

  I wasn’t going to get far in the hour before the inspector’s arrival, so I decided to explore the back terrace we’d glimpsed the evening before. I headed into the main hall and found Marianne sitting on one of the sofas in front of the French doors, sipping at a bowl-sized cup of café au lait.

  “Ah, Bonjour, Nora. You catch me at my morning duties. At this hour my guests are usually in their rooms, and I use the time to review the menus and the day’s schedule. But in fact, I was just thinking about you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I realize my decision about where to put Monsieur Daglan will inconvenience you, and I regret it. Jackie asked me to arrange a room for the interviews, and because it had to have a phone, a table, and a closed door, the library seemed the best place. Now I realize you may lose all of today. Perhaps the inspector will finish his work by lunchtime, and then you could work in the library from after lunch till dinner.”

  “That would be fine, Marianne.” The original plan was for us to cook in the morning and for me to do my research in the afternoon. “I wasn’t planning on getting in much work today anyhow. I’ll leave you to your planning if you’ll permit me to walk out in the gardens.”

  “Of course, go right ahead. And if you walk back to the statues and turn right, you’ll find a path that will take you along the cliff. There’s a lovely view of the river.”

  “Will I be able to get back in time for the inspector?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s about a twenty-minute walk. The path ends at a little stone building, our modest Lady Chapel. If you head straight back, you’ll be right on time for Monsieur Daglan. Jackie said the questioning will start with you.”

  Hurrying to keep to schedule, I moved quickly down a lane bordered by roses and passed the statues that shone white against the high boxwood hedges at the garden’s limit, leading me to the cliff path. Its ample width signaled that this had once been a bridle path, though there was nothing underfoot to suggest the recent presence of horses. The well-trampled grass did suggest someone walked here often, but the path was informally tended. Woodsy plants crept in from the forest edge on the left—wild geraniums, tiny pale violets, and even red poppies where the sun struck a patch.

  I took a big breath of cool, damp air and walked rapidly down the path, which grew darker as oak branches overhung ever more thickly. After perhaps ten minutes, I noticed that some of the boxwoods at cliff’s edge to my right had been sculpted into topiary. The spaces between the topiary offered quick glimpses of the opposite cliff, now obscured, since it was backlit by the sun on its rise in the east. In the valley between one cliff and the other, the Dordogne River sparkled on its way toward Bordeaux. But I tried to keep my eye on the path forward, seeking the turn that would bring me to my destination, the chapel that Marianne had mentioned. It had been constructed at the outermost jutting of the promontory behind the chateau. The door had been propped open with a stone. Inside I found six wooden chairs, a kneeler, and an altar draped with a white linen cloth, which was a bit worse for weather-wear, though it looked as if it had been replaced since winter. A small statue of a Black Madonna stood on the altar, surrounded by half-spent candles and by vases stuffed with roses that were still fresh. Affixed to the walls were plaques thanking the
Virgin for healing loved ones. A few were dated from the 1950s and ’60s, but most were much older, and a badly eroded one seemed to have a date of 1818. The only plaque that didn’t refer to an illness was dated 1944 and bore the inscription “Deliver us from evil.” I felt like an intruder, stumbling upon these faded supplications from another era.

  When I looked for a match to light a taper, I realized the statue had been blackened by smoke from countless candles lit for prayer. I was about to add my flame to the history but didn’t see a match, so I turned round to head back. Stepping over the threshold, I nearly toppled into Guillaume, who was trying to enter as I was trying to leave.

  “Excuse me!” he exclaimed, giving a deep bow. I had stumbled, and he reached out to right me as he rose from his position. When I looked up at his face, I thought I saw cunning, not apology, or even surprise. “Forgive me for interrupting your visit. But how did you know that our Lady Chapel was open at this early hour?”

  “Marianne suggested I take the cliff walk; and the chapel door was open, so I stepped in. I wanted a walk before meeting with Inspector Daglan. I really have to rush back for that. He’ll be waiting.”

  “That’s a pity. There’s another walk I could show you if you are interested, that is, if you are truly devoted to Our Lady. Am I mistaken? Are you one of her devotees?”

  I didn’t want to lie on a matter like this. But a true answer would have been more complicated than my rusty French could convey. So I stuck to the facts. “Well, as a girl, I went to Catholic school.” A sweet memory came flooding back, and I let it out without thinking. “In fact, one year I even led my school’s May Day procession. The nuns chose me to crown the Virgin with flowers that day.”

  “Did they? You must have struck them as a pious child.”

  “Not really. I was just a good student and also a little romantic about convent life. They may have thought I ‘had a vocation,’ as they used to say. But that wasn’t so.”

  Guillaume’s mood turned in a flash. “It’s just as well you escaped from them.” His eyes swept over my body approvingly.

  I started to duck out the door.

  “But if you still have an interest in such things,” Guillaume continued, “perhaps you will allow me on another day to show you a famous local site, the Virgin’s holy spring. It is deep in the chasm between Cazelle and Beynac, but that’s only a few kilometers, by the footpath.”

  “I would like that very much,” I replied, insincerely.

  “The pleasure will be mine. I am delighted to find that you have an affinity for our traditions. I was just saying so to my sister last night, after dinner. She thought I might have offended you with my comments about the patrimony of Périgord.”

  “Not at all, Monsieur. I hope to learn more about your heritage.” That much was true.

  “Exactly! That’s what I told Marianne. It’s a question of heritage. My sister gets out of sorts when I talk about the old ways. She fears people will think it strange if I express my feeling for the past. But I find that—”

  “I’m so sorry,” I interrupted, “but I really do have to go. My appointment with Inspector Daglan. Perhaps we can continue this discussion at our next dinner. A bientôt, Monsieur.”

  I hustled through the doorway and back along the cliff path, pondering the complexities of Guillaume’s character. At dinner he had seemed a bored aristocrat and then suddenly a passionate traditionalist. And his religious ideas were a jumble—love of the Virgin Mary, but disdain for a nun’s vocation. I wondered what turned his emotional switches on and off so abruptly. He’d be interesting to watch during our week’s stay at his castle. But at a distance. I didn’t want to find myself alone with him again.

  I turned back and retraced my steps at a jogger’s pace, hardly able to enjoy the views of the river and the ochre cliffs opposite. At last the château was in sight.

  When I arrived at the rose garden and approached the terrace, I saw Inspector Daglan was seated outside in front of the French doors, waiting for me and sipping from a tiny cup of espresso. He stood up as I approached, extending a big, hammy hand for a formal handshake.

  “Bonjour, Madame Barnes. Would you please follow me into the interview room?” I did as I was told, glancing down at my watch to confirm that I wasn’t late. It was one minute before ten o’clock, but already I felt at a disadvantage.

  After seating himself at the master’s desk in the library, with me opposite in a straight-backed chair, Daglan gave me the full squint treatment—head cocked to the side, mouth pursed as if to muffle a scoff, and eyes like slits. He stared, and I waited him out. That seemed to earn his respect. He began with a series of perfunctory questions. How long had I been working at Sonoma College, where had I been born, had I ever been to France before, where else in Europe had I traveled? I replied calmly. Those were the easy questions. Then one took me by surprise.

  “Now I’d like you to tell me about your work as an art historian. What exactly are your interests?”

  This was a morning for complicated questions. First Guillaume, now Daglan. Why did he want to know about my work?

  “Well, I have a number of interests,” I began. “At the college level we make a distinction between what we can teach and what we do our research on, our area of specialization.”

  “Let’s start with your research, then.”

  “All right. I wrote my dissertation on women painters in the nineteenth century who studied at the Académie Julian in Paris. The reason I’m here, as I told you yesterday, is that I’m doing research on Jenny Marie Cazelle. She attended the Académie, along with many others.” I paused to see if he had a follow-up question.

  “That is your primary subject? Women artists?”

  “Yes, it is. I also teach a survey of European art, a general course in the nineteenth century, and—”

  Daglan cut in. “This survey, what does it cover?”

  “The basic history of Western art.”

  “And where do you begin?”

  Now I saw where he was going. “With prehistoric art,” I replied calmly. “C’est logique,” I added—trying to appeal simultaneously to the French inspector’s faith in logic and to his national pride.

  “So then you have a professional interest in our cave paintings?” It seemed an accusation.

  “I suppose so, but I’m not a scholar in the field. The fact that I can give an introductory lecture on the subject doesn’t mean I’m an expert.”

  “Perhaps it is my ignorance of your profession, but I find your answer somewhat confusing.”

  “Then I haven’t expressed myself well, Inspector. I regret my French isn’t good enough to make these fine distinctions, so let me try again. What I meant to say is that as far as teachers of art history go, I am not an expert in prehistoric art.”

  “Then what was the purpose of your visit to Lascaux, when you applied to the authorities for permission?”

  He had me there. I sidestepped the question. “Inspector, no one would pass up an opportunity to see the original paintings in Lascaux. They’re world-famous. I’m not a Renaissance scholar either, but anyone interested in art would want to visit the Sistine Chapel if she were in Italy !”

  “So you prevailed upon the authorities to make an exception to their rules and allow you to visit as a tourist.”

  That might have been the case, but it wasn’t a capital crime. I didn’t reply.

  “And your companion, Monsieur Sandler, is he also here simply as a tourist?”

  That was a strange way of putting things. I felt heat rising to my face. If the inspector was trying to get under my skin, he was succeeding. “First of all, Monsieur Sandler is my husband, not my ‘companion,’ and, yes, he is here as a tourist and also to shop for antiques.”

  “Indeed. Your husband surely knows this part of France has yielded antiquities of great value. Anyone in the trade would know what riches in statuettes and rock carvings have come out of our limestone caves.”

  What was he getting
at? “Inspector, we simply wanted to see the paintings at Lascaux. Unfortunately, we became witnesses to a murder, about which we know nothing.”

  “That is precisely what I am trying to determine.”

  With this barb hanging in the air, Daglan’s face underwent a transformation. His eyes widened, and he leaned forward confidingly.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ve been wondering. A young professor at a small American college in the provinces whose husband is an antiques dealer can hardly be making a fortune. It might be tempting for such a couple to use their knowledge of art and of antiques to profit illegally by a visit to Périgord.”

  “I don’t follow you, Inspector.”

  “Then permit me to continue. We have a murder victim. In my experience, a victim usually has created a problem for someone, has become an obstacle to someone’s plans.”

  “Whoever that poor man was, he certainly was no obstacle to us. We never saw him before.”

  “So you say. In fact, the man who was killed in Lascaux was Monsieur Michel Malbert, and Monsieur Malbert worked for the Bureau of Historical Monuments and Antiquities, the agency that authorized your admission to the cave on the day of the murder. In addition, the focus of his recent work was the recovery of goods stolen from archaeological sites in Périgord.”

  “I hope you don’t think my husband and I have stolen any artifacts!”

  “We don’t know that you have. And we are trying to determine whether Monsieur Malbert was working on a particular case. For now I am only speculating, but could it be he had information about your activities that made him suspicious? I wonder if that is why he arranged to join you at Lascaux when he saw your names on the visitors’ list. Why else was he there that day? Was he following you?”

  His questions bore down like a drill, each one with a larger size bit.

  “That’s ridiculous. I know nothing about any plans to steal valuable artifacts. And my husband sells antiques in the American sense—objects that go back only to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.”