Murder in Lascaux (12 page)

“Lily, I'm wondering why you and David decided to take a cooking class for your honeymoon. It's not the typical choice for a June bride.”

“Well, I'm not a June bride,” she bristled. “We were married in March. But David's work at the firm wouldn't allow for a honeymoon then. We thought at first we'd be able to go to Venice in April, but then a case David was working on blew up, and our trip wasn't possible. In the end, David's boss set up this vacation as a gift to us. He arranged the visit to Lascaux and gave us tickets to Paris for a two-week trip.”

“I've heard that the law is an exacting mistress,” Roz interjected, “but I didn't know it also set the terms for a honeymoon!”

Rather than bristling again, Lily smiled shyly at Roz, as if grateful for an ally who would speak up against The Firm and its tyrannies.

“And did your husband's boss also arrange your stay at Cazelle?” I asked, with a bit more curiosity than was politic.

“No, that, at least, was our decision. David's recently been warned to reform his diet, since his father and brother have heart problems. David's a Francophile, and he's read people in Périgord have the lowest incidence of heart attack in Europe. The theory is that it's the diet, maybe something to do with wine or walnut oil. So he went on the Internet and looked for a cooking school in the region that would teach us how to cook the traditional food.”

“You chose the right place,” promised Roz. “Marianne is a master of Perigordian cuisine. And even better for your purposes, she's lived in the States and can tell you how to cook these dishes using ingredients you can get at home.”

“I hope so,” Lily almost whispered. There was a plaintive tone in her remark, as if she lacked confidence that this honeymoon would go well. I felt sorry for her. She seemed to have a sensitive temperament, prone to sadness. In an attempt to raise her spirits, I lifted my still half-filled glass of Baumes de Venise, which had been brought with dessert, and offered a toast to the hoped-for success of our week together. Patrick and Roz raised their glasses. I noticed then that Lily hadn't accepted any of the sweet wine. “Dessert wine not to your taste?” I asked.

“It's not that,” she denied, turning her eyes down in seeming embarrassment. “I don't drink.” It seemed to cost her something to say so.

“Then how about coffee? I'll bet they have decaf.” They did, and after finishing dessert we all four ordered some. As we sipped from the tiny cups and nibbled at a small tray of chocolates and candied walnuts, we stuck to safer topics—what we'd read about local restaurants and what we so far liked best about the food of the Dordogne. Meanwhile, I felt a little envious of Toby's place at the other table. There had been much laughter over there, not only from Toby and Dotty, whom I could see, since they were facing me, but also from David and Marianne, whose backs were to me. David gave another of his loud, warm laughs, as Dotty giggled, grabbing Toby's arm and sort of nestling her head into his shoulder in a show of being convulsed by mirth. Toby was getting the full merry widow treatment. Well, it was certainly more appealing than Lily's mode of lady in distress, which had brought the spirits at our table low.

By now the sun was setting, lending a rosy glow to the river and the fields beyond. I excused myself from the table and went over to extricate Toby, who looked up at me with mischief in his eyes.

“You'll never guess what we've been talking about. Dotty has discovered that there's a nudist colony at a nearby campground—well, not a colony, exactly, but a beach on the river.”

“Clothing optional,” reported Dotty. “It's called l'Espace Cro-Magnon Club Naturiste. ‘The Cro-Magnon Nudist Club.' Can you believe it? I'm trying to talk Patrick into going with me. If you two come along, I bet he'll do it. We could go as a foursome.”

“You know what? I don't think that would work for me,” I replied lightly, preempting any comment from Toby. I may like to see my husband having a good time, but I'm not crazy.

“At least think about it,” said Dotty, with a grin. “It could be an adventure.”

“It would be different, that's for sure. What do you say, Nora?” asked Toby in an innocent voice, rising from the table.

I hooked his arm and led him toward the stairs. “The only foursome you'll ever be part of is on the Northridge Golf Course.”

He laughed. “I thought as much.” He turned to Dotty and said over his shoulder: “Enjoyed talking to you. We'll see you later.”

“Right,” she waved, airily, going back to her glass of wine.

“Tell me something,” I said as we made our way out of the dining room. “Do you think Dotty's attractive?”

“Please.” Toby wore his put-upon look.

“What?”

“That question is the third rail of marital politics. Touch it and the man is dead.”

“No, seriously. I'm curious. Is Dotty the type of woman you'd be attracted to if you were single?”

“Nora,
you
are the type of woman I'd be attracted to if I were single. The proof is I married you.”

“And I'm glad you did. But say I wasn't available. Would she be your type?”

“Not really. She's a little too obvious. Of course, some men like that.”

“But not you.”

“No, because I'm happily married.”

“But if you weren't?”

“I'd be unhappy.”

“You won't answer my question, will you?”

“I'm trying not to.”

“Why?”

“Because if I said yes, you'd be mad, and if I said no, would you believe me?”

“Probably not.”

“The defense rests.”

A
t the threshold to the kitchen, the chef, his brow now glistening with perspiration, was shaking hands and acknowledging compliments as his dinner guests filed out. Until now it had been a pleasant evening. But at the bottom of the stairs, in the entryway of the hotel, stood Marc.

“I have to speak with you,” he said urgently. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“How did you know we were here?” asked Toby, after recovering from his surprise.

“Everyone knows where you are staying. I telephoned the château to ask where you were dining. I've been waiting for over an hour. Please, it's important.”

Toby looked worried, but after a pause, he said, “All right. But we have to meet our van soon, so we can't go far.”

Marc led us down the street to the town's sole café, which was busy with a boisterous after-dinner crowd. Inside, we found a table in the corner and ordered drinks, whiskey for Marc and for us small glasses of sweet walnut liqueur. Marc leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “The inspector questioned me for hours. He's convinced we know each other—I mean, we do know each other now, but he thinks we've known each other for a long time and that we're all involved in some conspiracy. You've got to convince him otherwise.”

“I'd like to,” said Toby, “but he may be hard to convince. What did he say about us?”

“He asked me all sorts of questions about you, but of course, I told him I had just met you and didn't really know anything about you. He didn't believe me.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Whether we had ever done business together, whether you deal in ancient artifacts, whether you knew Monsieur Malbert, the man who was murdered, those kinds of questions.”

“We never saw Malbert before in our lives. And I hope you told him you and I had never met before this afternoon.”

“Of course, that's exactly what I told him. But he doesn't believe what I say. And I'm not in a good position.”

“Why not, just because you're the nephew of Monsieur Gounot?”

“That and other reasons.”

“Yes? Can you tell us what they are?”

“It's complicated. It has to do with my father.”

“I don't think we can help you unless we know what's going on,” said Toby.

We waited.

He decided to continue. “Do you remember that I told you earlier today my father was a well-known prehistorian?” We nodded. “Well, there was a controversy about him after the war. He was accused of collaborating with the Germans.” He could tell we were shocked. “It wasn't true, not what they said he did, but it was true he was friendly with a German archaeologist who was working here in the Dordogne when the war began. That was the only collaboration my father took part in, a scholarly collaboration. They had similar research interests. But after the war, the authorities twisted the facts and accused him of working for the occupiers, helping them with propaganda. It ruined his career. He lost his appointment. And in a way it ruined my chances at a career.”

“How?” I interrupted. “Whatever your father might have done, you weren't to blame.”

“I didn't have enough money to attend the university. My father couldn't help me, and, in fact, his disgrace in the profession hurt whatever chance I might have had for a scholarship. And now look what's happened: I'm a suspect in a murder.” I saw he was twisting his mustache again. Was that a sign that he was lying, or just that he was nervous?

“I'm not sure I follow you,” I said.

“The man who was killed—Malbert—was my father's accuser. He was a young man at the time, just starting out to make his name in the Bureau of Antiquities. He built his reputation at my father's expense.”

“Whew!” whistled Toby. “Now I get it. And I see what Daglan is thinking. In my country we would say that not only did you have a motive for the murder, but also the means and the opportunity to commit it. Isn't it true you have access to the key and security code to Lascaux?”

“Maybe I do. But I assure you, I had nothing to do with this man's death, and I have a witness who can verify I was in my shop all day.”

“You mean the young woman who works in the library?” Toby asked.

“Yes, she works directly below my shop, and she will swear I never left it on the day of the murder. And that's the truth.”

“Then Inspector Daglan will be speaking to her, no doubt,” Toby said sharply. “Based on what you just told us, I can see why Daglan suspects you. But why would he think you are connected to us, other than that he saw us together today by chance?”

“No reason I can think of,” answered Marc. “But the police are always looking for connections. And you were there in the cave when it happened, weren't you?”

“That's true,” I admitted. Daglan was putting two and two together. In this case, though, his arithmetic was wrong.

“Marc, who else may have had a reason to kill this Monsieur Malbert?” asked Toby.

“That's just it, you see. Lots of people. Over the years Malbert made enemies in the profession. Some he denied permits to excavate. Some he charged for pilfering artifacts, some for forgery. Others, like my father, he discredited. There are more than a few who will not mourn his death.”

“Including you?” I asked.

Marc sighed and swigged down his whisky. “Yes, including me. But that doesn't mean I killed him. I didn't.”

“And your uncle?” Toby asked.

Of course! Our guide at Lascaux must have known Malbert was the man who had denounced his brother. But he didn't mention that connection to Inspector Daglan during questioning. Instead, he mumbled something about seeing the name on a visitors' list and assuming Malbert worked for the Bureau of Antiquities. That was misleading. I wondered whether Daglan knew anything yet about this history.

Marc's expression was unreadable. “Yes, of course, my uncle recognized Malbert at the cave,” he admitted. “He knew the name beforehand, but he didn't kill him, either. I'm sure of it.”

I was sure of it too, but only because Gounot had been standing in front of us when the lights went out and couldn't have attacked Malbert, who was at the rear of the line. But now that I knew he had a motive— the same motive as his nephew—it left me wondering. Could Marc and his uncle have been working together? It certainly would have been possible for Marc to slip into the cave before the tour began and then to coordinate the moment of attack with the guide.

We sat in silence. The din of the café seemed suddenly louder. “Maybe you can help us understand something else,” said Toby after a while. “The object left beside the corpse, that bird. What do you think it was supposed to mean?”

“It means whoever killed Malbert knew something about prehistory. The image of the bird is famous. But what the message was, I can't say.” He paused. “Unless it was left there as a sign of revenge.”

“Does the scene in the pit have anything to do with revenge?” I asked.

“Perhaps not, but obviously it has to do with death. The man in the scene is dying, or at least he is falling; the bison is dying, or at least he is wounded with a spear in his side; and then there is a bird on a stick that is lying next to the falling man. No one knows exactly what to make of this picture, but maybe the death of the man avenges the death of the bison, or vice versa.”

That didn't seem to me a likely interpretation, but it did seem plausible, the more I thought about it, that the murder was committed for revenge. If so, why leave a clue next to the body? Was it a message or a warning?

“What else can you tell us about the bird in the pit?” Toby asked.

“I know all the major theories about it,” Marc answered. “And unlike some of the scholars who write about it, I've seen the original with my own eyes.”

“Really? What's it like down there?”

“Mysterious. You have to descend into the pit by iron rungs that have been built into the side of the wall. It's like going down a ladder into a well. The space is narrow and difficult to illuminate. You can hardly turn around. As to the theories, some say the scene tells of a hunting accident. The bird is a simple decoy on a stick. Then there are those who argue the scene is symbolic. One professor thinks this, another thinks that. But I can tell you this much: whatever the scene means, the artist reserved it for the most remote part of the cave with the most difficult access. So it must have been important.”