Murder in Lascaux (33 page)

“Follow me, please,” Jackie piped in that strange fluty voice. He was pointing at the French couple who had been in our train car, and his gestures indicated that the whole family, two children included, should trail after him, down the same hallway that had swallowed Toby.

At intervals of roughly fifteen minutes, Jackie came in and out with his charges. I couldn't tell whether he was delivering them to another officer or interviewing them himself. He didn't return until they did, so either was possible. After two tedious hours, Jackie had thus dispatched everyone but me. And Toby had not returned.

“Madame Barnes, follow me if you please.”

He led me down the corridor to an open door, which slammed behind me as I took a seat at the large wooden table that was the only furniture in the room.

Daglan looked exhausted. He nodded somberly. I acknowledged the nod.

“Strange, isn't it? Each time you and your husband visit one of our tourist attractions, we end up with a murder.”

“But you can't think we had anything to do with this.”

“I don't know what to think. So, from the beginning, please. Tell me what happened, as best you can.” He sat back in his swivel chair, hands clasped behind his head, the very picture of patience tempered by a squint.

The inspector may have been up there in years, but his stamina was greater than mine. He held me for a good hour, going over and over the events at Rouffignac. When my answers became repetitious, he steered me in new directions by questioning me about the other suspects.

I welcomed the opportunity to unburden myself. I now knew more about Marc, Fernando, Guillaume, and Roz than I wanted to carry around with me. I told him about seeing Fernando and Marc together in Castelnaud, and I told him about Marc's relationship with the librarian who had provided his alibi for Lascaux. Daglan received it all with equanimity. He took notes only once, when I told him about the intended bequest by Roz's brother to his sister's charity and Dotty's reluctance to honor it. That made me feel so disloyal that I protested, arguing it was unfair to take that disclosure as an indictment of Roz.

“She hasn't been accused. No one has. I am merely trying to establish the facts.”

“I've already told you everything I know.”

“Yes? But what if there are certain facts you don't know?”

“What do you mean?”

“You keep talking about Madame Belnord. But I asked you once before how well you and your husband knew Madame Dexter. Let me ask that question in another way. Have you considered the possibility there might have been a relationship between your husband and Madame Dexter?”

Toby and Dotty? “That's nonsense. There wasn't any relationship! She was just another member of our group at the school.”

“Would you have known of such a relationship, had there been one? Tell me, have there been times in the last few days when you were away from your husband and were unable to verify where he was?”

“Very few, Monsieur,” I replied curtly. “We've been together the entire trip, except for a couple of early morning walks I took alone.” That would hardly be the hour for a tryst with Dotty, especially with Madame Martin popping in and out of the rooms delivering breakfast and removing trays.

“Otherwise you were always together? That seems unlikely, even for an American couple.”

I got the gibe. Frenchmen think American men are shackled to their wives. However, ignoring the quip, I had to admit, “Well, there were a few afternoons when I worked in the library and Toby went out antiquing.”

That led Daglan to push for information as to Toby's whereabouts during those intervals. I countered that Toby's movements could be accounted for by Madame Martin, Patrick, Roz, and … I was going to say Dotty, but stopped.

“You see, Madame Barnes, your husband could have executed a murder, quietly, in the back of the train car, without any witnesses— except someone who only you claim was there, but who was seen by no one else.”

“That's absurd. Toby had no reason to murder Dotty.”

“As far as you know. But didn't you suggest to your husband that David Press might have murdered Madame Dexter to conceal from his wife that he and the murdered woman were lovers? Isn't it possible that if she had a lover, it was someone else?”

I was shocked at the suggested parallel and by the knowledge that Jackie must have overheard what I'd said to Toby in the van. So much for assuming the local police don't understand English. We'd been naive, but then, we had nothing to hide, no reason to suppress our natural urge to speculate about the murder. But we sure had one now, if Daglan suspected Toby. Of course, I didn't believe it for a minute.

“This line of questioning is a waste of time, Inspector. My husband was not having an affair with Dotty. And if he had been, he wouldn't have killed her to hide it.” (Though I might have strangled her myself.)

“What if she had threatened your husband to expose their relationship?”

“He would take his chances.” (And they'd be slim.)

The habitual squint gave way to raised eyebrows. “No man is that honest, in my experience. And no wife is that understanding.”

I squirmed, recalling my petty jealousies on the train. But I wasn't about to let Daglan shake my faith in Toby, and he finally realized I wouldn't give ground.

“I see my questions have insulted you, Madame Barnes. You will appreciate that all possibilities must be explored, even those that are distasteful.”

I did not reply.

“Or unlikely.”

I sat there sullenly.

At last he said, “That will be all, for now. You and your husband may return to the château, but I must ask you to stay there until further notice.”

“But we're supposed to leave for home on Wednesday morning.”

To this Daglan made no reply except to steeple his hands and tilt back his head.

“You still have our passports,” I said.

“And you will receive them when you are free to travel, Madame.”

Now I felt that rush of anger that had overpowered David Press when his passport had been taken. I felt unjustly used. A week ago, I had thought David rash in reacting so hotly, but now I shared his outrage. There was nothing I could do.

T
he waiting room held Toby, along with the others from our party. They had been waiting for my interview to end, so we could all be driven back to the château. But where was Fernando? Detained, I was told, along with Marc. That meant they were active suspects, and Toby, after all, was not. Heading toward the police van, I brushed past Toby and said, “Watch out what you say in the van. Jackie understands English, and he reports what we say to Daglan.”

“Really? Then it's lucky we don't have anything to hide.”

“I know
I
don't.” Sometimes my unconscious speaks for me.

“What?”

I jumped into the van and took the seat next to Roz. Toby, shaking his head in bewilderment, got in and sat in front of us alongside Patrick, while David climbed in back. As soon as I sat down, I was angry with myself for getting rattled so easily and for venting my stress on Toby. He didn't deserve it. No husband was ever more steadfast or more patient. With my Irish temper, I give the poor guy plenty of opportunities to snap back. But he's always calm and forgiving. I have a friend who had a bipolar period in college. She calls Toby my live-in lithium.

I put a hand on Toby's shoulder and leaned forward to whisper, “Sorry. I'll tell you about it later.”

He turned around, still disconcerted, but he seemed reassured by my touch.

As the van pulled out, Roz started to cry. “I'm sorry I said those things about Dotty. She didn't deserve this,” she sobbed. “She'd had such a hard life. And you'd never know it.”

Was death gilding Roz's picture of her sister-in-law?

“That girl came from the most awful poverty. Never had an education,” she went on. “We never accepted her. She was frozen out, from the first, and it wasn't until Tom got ill that I saw her true quality.”

“Was she good to him?”

That sent Roz weeping again. When she'd calmed down and wiped away tears, she sighed and said, “She was the light of his life.”

I could feel the case against Roz, slight as it was, collapsing in a heap on the van floor. Roz couldn't put on this kind of act; her grief was real. And it rang true, the way Roz judged Dotty by how she treated her brother, Tom. That's how I judge Eddie's wife. That's how most women view their sisters-in-law. Does she make my brother happy? If so, she's my friend.

I reached over to pat Roz's hand, but she took mine in hers and held it tight, for comfort.

Meanwhile, from the back, David entered the conversation. “It's just unimaginable.” he said. “Toby, how could someone have murdered Dotty, when you were sitting right next to her?”

“That's what Inspector Daglan wanted to know. The only reason I'm in this van is because she was strangled from behind, so he finally had to concede I couldn't have done it. Otherwise, I'd still be at the police station. The garrote severed her vocal cords, so she couldn't cry out, and in the dark and with all that screeching, I had no idea what was happening.”

It struck me that if Daglan had already arrived at this conclusion, he might have spared me those nasty suggestions of his. What did he have to gain by such insinuations? Did police the world over simply make up scenarios and throw mud at suspects until something stuck to the wall? I felt anger again welling up inside me.

Now that we were sharing our stories, David explained he and Patrick had been sitting together in the second car. “Where were you, Roz?” he asked. She drew back in her seat, releasing my hand, and stared at him with indignation.

“Hold on,” Toby interjected, as a gentle rebuke, “the police don't think the murderer comes from our group. They've detained Marc and Fernando, not us. So let's make the same assumption.”

“I wasn't implying anything different,” said David. “But anyhow, which car were you sitting in?” he asked Roz.

“In the first car,” she said sadly.

“Right,” said David, somewhat abashed. To Toby he added, “I know they arrested Marc, but how can he be implicated? I thought he was driving the other train.”

“He was,” replied Toby, “and that would seem to put him out of the question, but it's awfully strange he was even there.”

“Roz,” I broke my silence, “do you know whether Dotty mentioned to Marc that we were coming to Rouffignac today?”

“I'm not sure. It would be just like Dotty to tell the whole world her business. She didn't have an ounce of reserve about her.”

“So, she might have. But I don't know why I even ask. If Marc was driving the other train, he couldn't have been behind Dotty at the time of the murder.”

In the silence that ensued, the others glanced our way from time to time. I imagined them thinking the obvious. The two people seated closest to Dotty were Toby and yours truly. That made for an awkward ride home.

D
escending from the van at the steps of the château, I delivered Roz into the care of Marianne, who had pulled up behind us. She had been allowed to drive her own car to the station, and then she followed the police van that held us. I let the two of them head off toward Roz's room. Toby and David were standing a few steps away from the van, in which Jackie was seated, talking into a two-way radio. The two men exchanged a few words and then walked my way.

David said, “I have to speak with you both. There are things you need to know, and we can't talk here. Let me get Lily, and we can go out somewhere.”

“Inspector Daglan told us to stay put,” I protested.

“We can go out to dinner. We just can't pack up and leave town.”

“Are you sure?”

“Nora, your life is in danger. You need to hear what I have to say.”

I looked at Toby to sense his response. He looked wary. “Okay,” he said. “But if you don't mind, we'll go in separate cars.”

“Fine. I'll get Lily. Let's meet in half an hour at that little crêpe place in Beynac, the one on the left just after the patisserie. Do you know it?”

“Yes,” said Toby.

“Good. It's time you found out what I'm doing here.”

A
pitcher of
cidre doux
sat on the table in front of us. Toby poured a round of the amber-colored cider, raised his mug, and took a swallow. “So, is it true or isn't it, what you've told us, that you're a lawyer and that you two are here on a sort of honeymoon?” With this last question, he included Lily in his glance. “If not, what's the story? Cheers, by the way.”

David raised his mug but lowered it without drinking. “Yes, that part is true, but I'm afraid this hasn't been much of a honeymoon for Lily.” He squeezed her hand, and she smiled gamely to acknowledge the implied apology. “I thought this trip could serve a double purpose, but now I realize that was my mistake.”

“So neither of you is really here for the cooking school,” I said, looking at Lily.

“You could tell, couldn't you? You're right, Nora. It's all about David's work, actually.”

“Which is?” Toby inquired.

David replied, “Restitution of artwork that was stolen by the Nazis. It's the pro bono work I do for our firm. Have you ever heard of the Monuments Men?”

I had. “You mean the commission the Allies set up toward the end of the war, to locate looted cultural artifacts in Europe?”

“That's right. The MFAA, for Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives. The soldiers who worked for the program were called Monuments Men. My father was one of them. He was studying architecture before the war and ended up being assigned to the commission. I've heard stories about their work all my life. I was brought up to believe that anything we can do to restore the family possessions of the victims of the Holocaust is a moral obligation, and that's what I still believe. Did you know nearly one-third of the art that was privately owned in France before the war ended up in the hands of the Nazis? That's right—a huge amount. A lot of it was returned after the war thanks to the efforts of my father's team, but thousands of works are still missing, not only major pieces taken from galleries and museums but paintings confiscated from private homes, family treasures that would have gone to the children and grandchildren of the victims but which are lost or have been resold or are still hidden or may be gathering dust in the basements of museums under false provenances. Well, I'm part of a volunteer group of lawyers in the United States who try to help families recover property confiscated during the war, especially paintings that might have some value.”