Murder in Lascaux (21 page)

“If there was, she kept it a secret. No, no, there was no one else. She lived quietly here, always working in her room or in the garden.” While his answers seemed casual, the old man was scrutinizing me with his eyes, clearly trying to size me up.

“Painting, you mean.”

“Painting, drawing, yes.”

“And what became of all those paintings, besides the ones here in the château I have seen?”

“Who knows? Many she gave away, to friends, relatives, comrades from her student days. She sold a few, as well, but really, I do not know much about that side of things. She had talent, but she was lost down here, far away from Paris and the art world. Everyone forgot about her. Except the family.”

“I think she was a very fine artist. Did she ever talk about her work to you?”

“I was just a boy at the time. She lived as a recluse as far as I remember. She took her meals with us but spent most of her time alone and had few visitors. No, now that I think about it, I knew very little about her habits or her thoughts.” He paused, tamping down his pipe. “There was one time I remember she tried to give me a drawing lesson, but I was very bad at it and bored, too, to tell the truth. I think I disappointed her. After that, she never spent much time with me. And later I was away at school. In those years I saw little of the family.”

“I understand.” Shifting gears, I pretended to consult my notebook, as if I were checking a list of questions I had jotted down during my reading. Looking up, I asked, “I wonder if you know whether she was religious?” I was thinking of Madame Martin's description of Jenny Marie as a daughter of the French Revolution.

The Baron's face darkened a shade with suspicion. “Why do you ask that question?”

“Only because I am curious about her views.”

“Her views? She was absent, as I recall, at family religious services, but I never discussed the subject with her. It was of no concern to me.” Here I sensed the old man was concealing his feelings, but I hesitated to force the question, as I had been slowly moving toward the subject I really wanted to ask about—the war years.

“There is one other thing, Baron, if I may. I don't seem to have any information about Jenny Marie's death. She died, I believe, in 1944, during the Second World War. Can you tell me anything about the circumstances?”

“That, Madame, is a painful subject I do not wish to discuss in detail. She was ill, she died, along with many others who suffered and died. My father, my comrades, many patriotic Frenchmen. It was a terrible time.”

“Yes, of course. I certainly don't wish to bring back painful memories, Baron. But I have been wondering what life was like here during the war. Was the family able to remain in the château?”

“It was our home. Where else would we live? Of course, there was hardship, but still it was better here than in the North, thanks to Marshal Pétain, who made a necessary arrangement with the Germans.” He meant the Vichy government, which was accused after the war of collaboration. “We had to make accommodations, and we did.” The baron said this as if he expected to be challenged, but I let it pass.

“Was there fighting here?”

“Some,” he nodded, with a grunt. “The partisans only made things worse for the population. They weren't always the heroes you hear about, I can tell you that.”

“I don't understand.”

“They would provoke the Germans, and then there would be reprisals against the local population. And many had their own reasons for fighting, which were not the reasons of France. Communists—I don't say all of them, but some nevertheless.”

“Were you involved in any of the fighting?” He had been in his late teens, old enough to have fought.

“I served briefly, but for most of the war I remained here, helping the local people.” That was a vague, disquieting answer.

“As a member of the government?”

“No, as a private citizen but one who, along with my father, had responsibilities as a result of our family's position. We provided aid and assistance to those who were in need.” Here the old baron knocked the ashes from his pipe, uncrossed his legs, and rose with slight difficulty from his armchair. “Madame, you will excuse me if I interrupt this interesting conversation, but I must go now. I only came into the library for a moment to search for a book.” He strode to one of the shelves, pulled a book out by its spine, checked the title, and tucked it under his arm. “I wish you success with your research. Until later …” His words drifted off inconclusively, as he nodded and rounded the door at a sprightly clip for an old man in slippers.

L
ike me, Toby had skipped the group's excursion. While I worked in the library, he'd spent a few hours antiquing around Beynac, but he returned to the chateau empty-handed. Not to call the afternoon a loss, he proposed that we go off on a little jaunt before dinner. Without even asking “Where to?” I agreed, on the condition that he'd put up with listening to my end of a call home as he drove.

Our destination was a picturesque hamlet tucked away on a side road between St. Cyprien and Les Eyzies. Tiny as it is, Meyrals has a reputation as an artists' colony, and we were ready for a distraction. As we headed that way with the windows rolled down to savor the breeze, I dialed my sister's cell phone. I reached her during her work break, which was good, but she was having her cup of coffee at Hank's shop, which was bad. Nonetheless, after determining Hank was not at the table, I plunged in.

“Got a minute to talk about men?”

“Not really. Unless you're having trouble with Toby.”

“No, but I'm a little concerned about you and Hank.”

“What is it with you and Mom? Every time I let slip I've got a boyfriend, you two are on my case, badmouthing the guy. Even when you haven't met him. Do you want me to be single forever?”

“I'd just like to see you take it a little slower, Angie. Till this week, you'd never mentioned Hank, and all of a sudden you're giving him $30,000. You're going to be penniless once you write that check. And you'll be without a job if you walk away from the beauty shop and go on the road with Hank. It's not such a great idea for a woman to be that dependent on a man, even if she's married to him, and I haven't heard you mention that.”

“Oh, brother. Is that what this is about? You and Mom want me to marry Hank before I invest in his business? You two are living in the Dark Ages.”

“That isn't what I meant, Angie. This is coming out all wrong. I'm just worried for you.”

“Well, stop worrying. I'm not fifteen anymore, you know.”

“Are you telling me I'm being too much the big sister?”

“You could say that.” I heard a grudging smile in Angie's voice.

“Okay, I'll back off. I'll just be plain old sister, sending love from overseas.”

“Good. Forget about me for a while. Have a great vacation. You're in France!”

That made me realize I'd said nothing about our ordeal at Lascaux. For a second, I wondered whether the murder at the cave had hit the press in the United States. Angie wasn't much of a newspaper reader, so she wouldn't have seen any coverage. But someone else in the family might hear about it soon. I let the moment pass, and we said sisterly goodbyes.

I turned toward Toby. “Was that awkward, or what?”

“Not so bad. You've said your piece. Are you really going to cease and desist with Angie?”

“I promised to, didn't I? But I have this terrible impulse to call my brother in Boston and ask him to help. Angie's always respected Eddie's opinion.”

“Would that be in the spirit of—”

I interrupted him. “No. I know that. It would violate Angie's privacy. It would undermine her independence. And she told me to lay off. So it's not happening. I'm just telling you, I have the impulse.”

For the remainder of the drive, we enjoyed the scenery in silence. We drove past slender stands of poplars swaying in the wind, yellowing pastures where the hay was rolled up like carpets, remote farmhouses, beehive huts, crumbling manors, and roadside chapels, all made of the same attractive tawny stone. For the moment, thoughts of family and murder were banished from my mind.

T
he sleepy village of Meyrals has a sixteenth-century château and an old church but is otherwise unremarkable, except for half a dozen signs planted here and there directing visitors to this artist's home or that artist's gallery. We turned off at the third sign and followed the arrows to a rambling old stone house set back from a side road about a mile from the village entrance. The house was well hidden by a tall hedge, but a sign out front read: “Nigel Simmons,
Peintre. Bienvenue
. Welcome. English Spoken.” A Brit, most probably—there were a quite a few of them living in the Dordogne. Alerted by the slamming of the car doors as we got out, the artist himself appeared in the doorway and invited us in.

Nigel Simmons was in his fifties, had a ruddy face that complemented the red cravat around his neck, and was sloshing a gin and tonic in one hand, with which he motioned us inside. He had longish hair combed wet and wore a long-sleeved white shirt and white pants. Delighted to see us, he was, and more than happy to show us around. “Americans! We don't see too many of your lot around here, do we? But please come in. Have a drink? You've come at the right hour. Just having one myself, as you can see.”

He showed us into a large, open room with walls of exposed stone and old worm-eaten beams that supported the upper floors. After brief introductions, he left us to wander around while he fetched the drinks. The ancient manse had been smartly renovated with an eye toward maximizing exhibition space but at the same time preserving as much of the original architecture as possible. The walls were hung with plentiful examples of the artist's work, mainly watercolors of popular subjects: flowers, birds, fruit tumbling from baskets, vegetables portrayed from interesting angles. They were attractive.

“Please don't leave without buying one,” he implored with disarming frankness. “I could use the money!” This was said with a self-deprecating smile as he handed us our drinks. After taking our time looking around, we did select a small, unframed painting of a watermelon, sliced into triangular pieces, which was nicely done and inexpensively priced. It would make a sweet gift and would be easy to pack. That broke the ice.

Highly pleased, Nigel invited us to make ourselves comfortable. He pulled a wicker chair across the room and gestured for us to take seats on an old sofa set against the wall. As cash-paying clients, we were entitled to freshened drinks and conversation. In ten minutes we had his full life story—divorced, living in the Dordogne for the past twenty years, bibulous, garrulous, lonely, and, except for the house, which must have been valuable, a bit down at the heels. He was delighted to learn I was an art historian and flattered that I appreciated his work. He also seemed genuinely interested as I described my research project on Jenny Marie Cazelle.

Did he know of her? Was he familiar with the family and their château?

Yes, he was aware of her work, but he'd seen only one painting of hers. As for the family, he didn't know them well but certainly knew
of
them, especially the baron's son, Guillaume, who had something of a reputation among the arty set.

“Really? In what sense?” I asked.

“Well, it's all just rumor,” Nigel replied, “but he's been selling old paintings for years at the Bordeaux auction houses, and people have been wondering where they came from.”

“Why is that? They live in a château,” I pointed out, “so there's obviously wealth in the family, and it wouldn't be unusual for them to have acquired a number of works of art over the generations.”

“That's not what I'm talking about,” Nigel said. “It goes back to the war, at least that's what people around here say.”

Pushed for an explanation, Nigel spun a tale about Nazi-looted art during the occupation and the suspicion—it was common knowledge, he said—that the Château de Cazelle was used to store some of the stolen works during the waning days of the Third Reich. “Too friendly by half” was the phrase he used to describe the family's relations with the occupiers. By war's end, the works had been moved elsewhere or dispersed, but local gossip had it that the family retained a portion of the secret cache from those days and that from this cache Guillaume pieced out works to auction.

“What kinds of paintings?” I wanted to know. “Were the works museum-quality?”

No, Nigel said, they were paintings for the most part by less well-known artists, but still paintings that can bring a good price, the kinds of paintings the Nazis expropriated from people's homes when they were rounding them up.

I listened with a queasy feeling, recalling Inspector Daglan's observation that before Malbert was killed, he had visited the château to discuss the status of a private cave located somewhere on the Cazelle grounds. What if this hidden cave had nothing at all to do with prehistoric art but instead concealed paintings that had been stolen during the Holocaust? If so, had Malbert been killed to prevent him from uncovering that secret?

Of course, I knew that the Nazis had looted art from both public and private collections during the war. One famous episode came to mind. Before the war, the Bernheim-Jeune family had operated one of the most prominent galleries in Paris, featuring a stunning array of impressionist art. With the fall of France, the owners, who were Jews, faced the prospect of German confiscation, and worse. And the worst happened: the Nazis seized the gallery, and while some family members escaped, others were sent to concentration camps where they met their deaths. However, before the Nazis arrived, the family managed to send the best part of their collection to friends who owned the Château Rastignac in the Dordogne. At the beginning of the war, the Dordogne was part of the so-called free zone, run by the Vichy government rather than governed directly by the occupiers, and the family had reason to believe the paintings might be safely hidden there. But toward the end of the war, as the German army suffered reversals and the French Resistance stepped up its activities, German troops began exacting reprisals in the Dordogne. In 1944 the Nazis ransacked the château and burned it to the ground. Just before they set the place ablaze, several German army trucks loaded with loot were seen leaving the site. To this day, no one knows whether those trucks contained the hidden paintings or whether they perished in the ashes. The paintings have never been found, including a famous Renoir and a van Gogh.