Murder in Lascaux (16 page)

I turned to the sketchbooks to see if I could find the drawing of her brother, and sure enough, there he was, captured in charcoal: a bright-eyed, towheaded boy of ten or eleven, face half turned toward the artist, mouth wide with laughter, his neck and trunk barely suggested by quick black strokes. A skillful drawing for a young artist, I thought, and a sweet face.

But soon I felt the time slipping away and began skimming more quickly. By nineteen, Jenny Marie had exhibited at local fairs and competitions; by twenty, she was earning money from her portraits; and at twenty-two she was off to Paris to study at the Académie Julian.

And there, I thought, I will leave you until tomorrow, for I had reached a logical stopping point after a good afternoon's work. I glanced at my watch; it was already half past five.

I
was relaxing with my feet up on one of the patio chairs, reading about the Cathars and wondering whether I should call my sister again, when I heard someone crunching over the pebbles of the terrace. It was Madame Martin carrying a tray of drinks.

“Would Madame care for an aperitif ? I can offer you a kir, white wine, or sparkling water.”

“
Merci
! A kir would be lovely,” I replied. I watched as she carefully poured white wine into a glass already lined with a half-inch of cassis liqueur. I thought of asking her to call me Nora, since “Madame” felt so formal, but then I realized this would raise the question of whether I would call Madame Martin by
her
first name. Instinct told me she would feel more respected if I addressed her as Madame, so I stifled my American impulse toward familiarity.

“Thank you, Madame,” I said. “I've just spent hours in the library, and it's time to clear my mind.”

“That is our habit,” the older woman replied. “Generations of Cazelles have come here at the end of day to find repose.”

“It's the perfect spot,” I agreed. “How long have you worked for the family, Madame Martin? Which barons have you served, out here on the terrace?”

“Before Baron Charles, I served his father, Baron Pierre. And my mother served his father, Baron Antoine.”

“Really? Then your mother must have known Jenny Marie, his sister.”

“
Mais oui, Madame
. My mother esteemed Mademoiselle Cazelle very highly.”

“Then I have a question, Madame Martin. I don't know much about the naming tradition in France, so I'm probably all wrong, but the name Jenny doesn't sound French to me at all.”

Madame Martin looked pleased, as if her pet pupil had just come up with a smart question. “You're right.”

“Since the Cazelle family is so traditional in other ways, what led them to pick a name like that?”

“That was her mother's decision. Isabelle. Of course, she wasn't a Cazelle by birth. Baron Émile met her when he was studying at the Sorbonne. It's true she was from an aristocratic line, which made her acceptable to the family, but she was one of those radical women devoted to all sorts of new ideas. That's where we get to Jenny Marie's name.”

“Then it was a choice for the name to be nontraditional?”

“Yes, you could say that. In fact, Jenny Marie was named after Jenny Lind, the famous opera star from Sweden.”

I'd heard of Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale. She'd been an international star in the nineteenth century and later had done many good works for charity, but I'd never thought about her as a role model for women. Of course, she would have been.

Evidently, Jenny's mother thought so. She named her daughter after Jenny Lind, in tribute and perhaps in hope. True to her mother's wishes, Jenny Marie had lived life her own way, as an artist and an independent woman.

“What else can you tell me about Jenny Marie Cazelle?”

Madame Martin paused. After a moment's silence, she replied. “She was always serious, that one, even as a girl. And strong-willed. That was true throughout her life.”

“In what way?”

Madame Martin looked thoughtful. “It must have taken courage to leave the château and to go live alone in Paris to pursue her career, don't you think? In those days, women didn't fly off by themselves so easily. But you see,
Maman
knew Mademoiselle Cazelle both in her youth and after she came home, after the First World War. She used to say Mademoiselle Cazelle was a brave one, a woman who was true to her beliefs, first to last.”

“Did she mean by that her dedication to her career?”

“I suppose so.”

“Or perhaps she meant something else. What were her other beliefs? Was Jenny Marie religious, for example?”

A laugh lightened the mood. “
Au contraire! Maman
always said that however aristocratic her blood, Mademoiselle Cazelle was a daughter of the Revolution. She believed in liberty, equality, and fraternity. That's why she stopped calling herself ‘de Cazelle.' As soon as she started signing paintings, as a girl, she dropped the ‘de' from her name because she thought it stank of aristocratic pretension.” As if realizing suddenly that her employers used the “de” and that she might seem to be criticizing them, she stopped short. I waited for her to continue.

“Yes,
Maman
always said Mademoiselle treated her as one of the family.
Maman
was just the cook, and Mademoiselle was the sister of the baron, but when Mademoiselle died, it was as if my mother had lost her own sister. I never saw her weep like that again.”

“Do you remember when she died?”

“I was only five years old, but I'll never forget my mother weeping that time. It was near the end of the war, but we didn't know that. My father was away, and we feared he would never return. Then suddenly the two elders of the Cazelle family died within months of each other. It was a catastrophe.”

“That would be Jenny Marie and her brother, Antoine. How did they die, if I may ask?”

Madame Martin stiffened and replied, “It is not easy to talk about those days. It was a terrible time. And these matters are private to the family. It's not for me to discuss.” She bent to pick up her tray and depart.

The distant sound of shifting pebbles made us both look to the side, to see Fernando entering one of the garage stalls with a rake and hoe in his grasp.

“Could I ask you one more indiscreet question?” A change of subject might get Madame Martin to stay. “It's about Fernando. Am I the only one who has found him difficult?”

“How do you mean, Madame?”

“Well, a bit rude and not very friendly.
Pas sympathique
.”

Madame Martin nodded her head knowingly. “I can tell you about him. You see, Madame Marianne has a forgiving heart. Fernando's father was a mason who came from Portugal to work on the Château of Beynac, years ago. He was well respected in the village. And he was training Fernando to work beside him. But when Fernando was young, only about sixteen, he was arrested for stealing objects from an excavation at the castle.”

“Did he go to jail?”

“Yes, he did. The objects were of archaeological value, very precious, very old. He spent two years in prison.”

“Then how did he get a job here, after such a disgrace?”

“The mayor heard Marianne was starting her cooking school, and he asked her to take Fernando on. Fernando's father is so well regarded that the mayor wanted to help the son get back on his feet. And many believe the accusation was false. There's some prejudice against the Portuguese around here. Madame Marianne says we should remember that, when Fernando acts resentful. If he spent time in prison for a crime he didn't commit, he would naturally feel angry from time to time. And the authorities never leave him alone, like that poor inspector from the Bureau of Antiquities who was killed the other day. He was here pestering Fernando the very day before he died, so I don't wonder that Fernando is upset.” She hesitated, and began to blush. “I have said too much. I am turning into an old gossip. But I didn't want you to have the wrong impression of Fernando. He is a good worker.”

She straightened up and turned to leave, smiling apologetically as she said, “I must return to the kitchen. Enjoy your kir, Madame.”

For a good while I sat sipping my drink, thinking about what I'd just heard.

I
FOUND
T
OBY IN OUR ROOM
, leaning over the bed, examining a large sheet of parchment. He turned his head my way and grinned, without rising from his bent position.

“You look like an ostrich. What have you got there for prey?” I asked.

“A map! And we're on it. Come take a look.” Toby always wears a sheepish smile when he's made an impulsive purchase.

“Did you get a chance to apologize to Fernando?”

“I did. Briefly.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing. He grunted. I think that means a ceasefire.” Well, at least Toby had made an effort. “Now let me show you something.”

I knew that whatever this map was, I'd better like it. There was no need for me to feign enthusiasm. I was so struck by the total effect of the artistry that the writing didn't register until Toby said, “See, it's the diocese of Sarlat, with all the churches drawn in black like little steepled huts and inked over in red. Look, just along the river here, there's Beynac, and right above it is Cazenac—that's the church on the hill opposite Cazelle.”

“But the style doesn't look local. It doesn't even look French.”

Toby put a finger on a small bit of script at the lower right corner: “Amsterdami. Apud Guiljelmum Blaeu.”

“Dutch, mid-eighteenth century,” he informed me. “The midline crease has been mostly ironed out, but you can see the map was stored folded in a boxed set of prints. It comes from a collection of maps of the ecclesiastical domains of Périgord.”

“It's beautiful, and one thing you can be sure of. There was a wealthy patron behind the project. Someone who loved the Church bought the talents of an exquisite printmaker, this William Blau.”

“I'm going to ask the baron about it. I got the print from a Dutch antique dealer in St. Cyprien. But she told me her father purchased the set from a family in Beynac in the late 1930s. She doesn't have a record. There was so much chaos during the war, she said. Important papers were lost.”

“You know, this lull before the dinner hour would be a good time to find the baron. Why don't you see if you can consult him while I take my shower, and then we'll go out to eat?”

I
t was nearly an hour before Toby returned, looking bemused. He raised his eyebrows high and announced, “I've had quite a time with Baron Charles. Let's get going, and I'll tell you on the way.” Our destination was a café Toby had spotted on the main street of St. Cyprien. He wanted to return for the fricassee of rabbit that he'd seen on the chalkboard.

“Want me to drive, so you can talk?” I asked, moving to the driver's seat.

He gave me a sideways smile and settled in as my passenger.

“This family is full of surprises,” he announced. “Did you know we are living in a hotbed of heresy?”

That word again. “You mean, as in the Cathar heresy?”

“That's my guess. When I showed him the map, the baron nearly pushed it off the table. He said he had nothing but contempt for the wars of the Church and their genocide in Périgord.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“I asked him, but I didn't entirely follow. I think it goes back to what you were reading aloud to me when we went to Castelnaud. Charles kept pointing at the Cazenac church symbol and saying ‘this holy site' didn't rightfully belong to the Church. It belonged to ‘the pure'— whoever they were—and their champion, Bernard de Casnac. He also kept mentioning Toulouse.”

“Did you ask him if his family might have commissioned the set of maps?”

“That's what got him agitated. He said his family would never give tribute to the wolves of Rome. Leave that to the lords of Beynac, he said.”

“So it looks like there's a family feud between this little castle and the big one on the opposite cliff ? And it has to do with Rome and the Cathars?”