Murder in Lascaux (23 page)

B
y ten we were assembled in the kitchen for our next lesson, and I tried to clear my head. Our assignment today was a dessert extravaganza. Last evening while we were in Sarlat, Marianne had prepared a batch of ice cream and left it overnight in the refrigerator for finishing this morning. As we gathered around the table for instructions, my eyes sought out David's, testing for any flicker of complicity that might confirm his movements of the night before. But if he had been following us, or if he'd spotted us in the attic, he gave no sign. Instead he listened intently as Marianne outlined the procedures to be followed. Toby, who had been staring just as hard at him, caught my eye and shrugged.

Our first task was to process the ice cream and get it in the freezer. The flavors were local: walnuts and honey and caramel. That would be a perfect accompaniment to the strange cake we were baking. Its base was pumpkin mash and corn flour, its oil was goose fat, and it was flavored with rum and chopped prunes: a winter cake, but we would make it summery by accompanying it with ice cream and by eating only a big salad of greens, goat cheese, and pear slices beforehand.

I was distracted by my plan to catch Marianne alone to probe for more information about the family, but I didn't know how to approach her. I considered my options as she assigned teams for preparing the cake. Marianne put Dotty with us and paired Roz with Patrick. I kept an eye on Dotty as she sidled up to Toby and asked for hands-on assistance in tackling our pumpkin. Meanwhile I observed David and Lily. Admittedly, a pumpkin is not an easy vegetable to handle, but they both seemed unusually inept with a knife. This time, Marianne used their awkwardness to good advantage, demonstrating on their pumpkin how to take a slice off the top and another across the bottom, so that the pumpkin had a firm base when she used a small but sturdy knife to pare the skin from top to bottom. All would have been well then with the Presses, except that when we cooked the pumpkin chunks in milk, their pot boiled over, getting milk scum stuck to the pot and the burner. Marianne's patience was tried as she explained that milk has to be watched carefully or it will develop a skin (the first warning sign of things gone wrong) and then boil over. Once again, I was confirmed in my assessment that the Presses were newcomers to cooking.

At one point, each half of the team had a separate task. Toby and Dotty were doing one job (folding the egg yolks into the boiled pumpkin mash), while I did the other (whisking the egg whites). I was standing next to David, who was also on the white-whisking duty, so I took the opportunity to chat him up.

“At home, are you the baker, or do you leave that to Lily?” (The way he was frantically stirring, not whipping, the egg whites was a clue.)

David hesitated before saying he kept more to the main course. We then both looked over at Lily, who was having trouble executing a simple turn of the mixing spoon in the heavy batter.

“Um, we usually don't make desserts. There's an Italian bakery right on our corner.”

Marianne swept in at that moment to correct David's arm action. I stepped back to my team just in time to extricate Toby from an embrace Dotty had artfully engineered under the guise of getting some help in batter-folding. From then on, I stuck with my team, and we produced an aromatic cake, without further entanglement.

Both the salads and the desserts were served on the utilitarian white dishes we always used in class. At the end of the meal, looking down at my empty dessert plate, I remembered the pattern I'd seen on the family china the first night, and it gave me the opening with Marianne that I was looking for.

“Marianne, I'm wondering if you could show me some of that beautiful china you used the first night we were here. I'm interested in Limoges patterns, but I've never seen one like yours.”

“I'd be happy to show you after class. There's a reason you have never seen the pattern. Perhaps your husband would be interested also, since he knows antiques.” The glance she gave Toby communicated that he was still on probation.

A half hour later, the class dispersed, and Toby and I were standing with Marianne in front of the dining-room's china cupboard. Marianne carefully carried over to the table a dinner plate, a soup bowl, and a cup. She turned the plate over to show the Limoges stamp in the center. Where the pattern name would normally be, the notation was “Château de Cazelle.”

“This is a private pattern,” she explained. “My grandfather commissioned it in 1922 as a wedding gift to his bride.” She turned the plate over again and placed it in my hands.

“It's lovely,” I said. “The colors on the rim ribbon are so rich, especially the ruby red of the crosses against the gold. It's an odd shape for a cross, though, isn't it—I mean, the way the stem and arm-piece are equal and thick, so that the cross is round, like a flower.” I brought the edge of the plate up to my eyes for close examination. “Is that a fleur-de-lis on each of the tips of the cross?”

“Those are crowns on the tips. It's the Cross of Toulouse, you see.”

“Oh? Is the family related to the house of Toulouse?”

“Yes, rather far back, there's a connection to the count of Toulouse. One of us was one of his lords, once upon a time. I don't know all the details.”

“The Cathars—this cross is their symbol, isn't it?” Toby, who can be blunt, pointed to the design repeated around the rim of the plate.

Marianne gave a start and took a step back. “I don't know that it is. It's the Cross of Toulouse, and it's on our coat of arms because a branch of the family derives from the line of Toulouse.” She sounded defensive.

Toby and I exchanged glances, and then we set about being polite, admiring the dishes, getting out the bigger serving pieces to see how the design was placed on their various shapes, and then helping Marianne put everything safely back. As she turned the key on the cupboard, she said to Toby, “If you're interested in heraldic symbols, you may enjoy Sunday's outing. Do you know about the Félibrée at Domme?”

“Yes, I'm looking forward to it. Does the celebration take place every year?”

“Every year since 1903. The festival rotates from town to town, to all four corners of Périgord. It's usually the first weekend in July, but it's a week earlier this year, to coincide with a special celebration at Domme. Four hundred years ago this week, the people of Domme began rebuilding their church, which had been demolished during the Wars of Religion.”

“Religion is a delicate subject around here, isn't it?” Toby ventured.

“It is everywhere,” she answered.

“At least, in France, your government stays out of religious matters,” I said, trying to be agreeable.

“You think so? You know, today the government finds other places to stick its nose. They've been harassing us at Cazelle—those people from the Bureau of Antiquities.” She caught herself. “Of course I'm sorry about what happened to their representative, but really, it has been very unpleasant for us.”

Now I saw my way. “Inspector Daglan mentioned something about that,” I said. “Something about a cave on the property?”

Suspicion tightened her features, and her voice developed a jagged edge. “Daglan said that? Yes, well, there are caves all over the countryside. In fact, there's one on practically every estate, so there's nothing special about ours. But somehow they've got it into their heads that there must be prehistoric art down there. There isn't. I used to go there myself, as a girl. There's nothing but a long, narrow tunnel and a small rotunda at the end with pretty stalactites. It's no concern of anyone's, including the inspector. But you must understand my father's position. He finds it insulting that the bureau will not take his word, and, as Guillaume says, the cave is on private property.”

“Monsieur Malbert's visit here must have been uncomfortable for you,” I commiserated.

“Visits. It wasn't just once. This last time, I didn't have the patience for it. I left it to my father and brother. I was busy getting ready for your arrival, anyhow, and then you know what happened. I didn't like that man, but how awful.”

“And yet,” I said, “in spite of everything, you've been an excellent host. You've had to change so many things because of the investigation, but you've managed to accommodate everyone's needs. We appreciate it.”

“It's good of you to say that,” Marianne replied curtly, moving back at the same time, as if to send us on our way. I pretended not to pick up on her signal.

“May I ask one other thing?” I interjected. “I hope you won't think I'm prying too much into family matters, but we heard another story yesterday about the château, and I'm wondering if there's anything to it.”

“Oh, yes? Who else is telling you stories about us?”

“It was an artist we met in Meyrals. He was talking about art that was hidden from the Nazis during the last world war. It seems some people think there may have been paintings hidden here in the château. Could that be?”

“
Mon Dieu!
That's another ridiculous rumor. People will believe all sorts of things, but nothing like that ever happened here. You say an artist in Meyrals told you the story. Which one?”

“His name is Nigel Simmons,” replied Toby.

“The drunken Englishman. I thought as much. Half the time he doesn't know what he's talking about, and the other half he makes things up. For some reason he doesn't like us, and he's a terrible gossip. But, no, nothing like that ever happened at Cazelle. I assure you, if it had, I would know about it.” She turned to go, then turned back again. “You know, I asked you once before to respect the boundaries between our private domain and the parts of our property that we have made available to our guests. Perhaps I didn't make myself clear.”

Did Marianne know about our visit to the attic last night? Her eyes were cold. “This is our home, it is not a museum. I've asked you not to wander about wherever you fancy. And that goes for letting your imagination wander about, as well. I don't wish to be impolite, but is that understood?” She was trembling now with anger. We'd obviously crossed a line. “And now, please excuse me. I have work I must do in the kitchen.”

“Of course,” I said, “and, Marianne, I'm sorry if you think we've taken advantage of your hospitality by asking so many questions.”

She paused to take a deep breath. “I'm sure you meant no harm. Americans don't think anything of asking personal questions. Our customs are different.”

“I'm sorry if we offended you,” offered Toby.

“
Bien
,” said Marianne, but she wasn't smiling as she left.

When she was gone, I asked Toby, “Do you think she knows we were in the attic?”

“Can't tell, but she's definitely hiding something. Did you see her expression when you asked her about the cave? I wonder what it would take for us to get a look at it. If there are paintings hidden anywhere, that would be the logical place.”

“I know. But we can't ask her anything more about the cave after that. In the meantime, maybe we can try to find out more about what went on here during the war. I'd like to go back to that little bookstore in Castelnaud this afternoon. They had a whole section on the Resistance in Périgord. We might be able to find out a few things.”

Toby agreed. In late afternoon, we would drive up to the village. First, though, I was headed for the family library, and Toby was taking Dotty antiquing. I squinted like Daglan and suggested that it would be only polite to ask Roz to join them. “Already did,” he replied with a wink. “She's coming. She knows her job.”

T
he library had been shut up since yesterday, and the air felt stale. I could still smell traces of the baron's pipe smoke, so I opened the window wide before returning to my place at the table.

I felt useful, getting back to work. By now I had gone through all but one of the notebooks. The fourth in the series dated from the artist's return to the Dordogne in 1917, up through the summer of 1938. The early entries in this notebook recorded news of the First World War and were sparse and somewhat impersonal. An exception came on November 1, 1918, the day of the armistice.

I rechecked the family chronology. Pierre was the son of Jenny's brother, Antoine (and would become the father of the current baron). Just a month before Jenny's entry in the notebook, the boy had turned eighteen and had been conscripted. Now he would return safely. By this time, Antoine was the head of the family. He was the one who had urged Jenny Marie to return to Cazelle.

As the months went by, the entries, like the weather, became sunnier.

By now Jenny Marie was in her forties, and in those days she would have been considered well past her prime. Even so, she seemed to find renewed energy for work. She wrote of rekindling old acquaintances and busying herself with new projects. Judging from sales notations, her career took an active turn in the mid-1920s. There were details about exhibitions and commissions—and something else that caught my attention. She began selling works at auction. Not often and never her own works, which seemed exclusively to be handled through private transactions, but the works of other artists about her own age. Few of the names were well known, but all struck me as familiar. It took a while for my memory to work, but when it did, the explanation was obvious: I had come across them in an earlier notebook. Jenny Marie was selling paintings she had acquired in her student days from her friends at the Académie Julian. I went back to the notebook from that period, and sure enough, I found references to most of the names that surfaced in the auction accounts. At the Académie, the students often traded works or bestowed them as gifts of friendship; Jenny gave away many of her own works, as well. Now, to promote the careers of her friends, she was helping build a market for their works by placing some at provincial auctions. I cross-checked the box of letters from the period and confirmed that Jenny Marie had shared the proceeds from successful sales with her former comrades. Aimée Laurance was not among them.