Free Murder in Lascaux by Betsy Draine

night’s dinner, or he was a little jealous of David’s language skills. I’d be able to tell by the end of the day, but for now I’d better leave Toby alone. So per our usual morning routine, I went for a walk and left him to his second cup of coffee.
    I wasn’t going to get far in the hour before the inspector’s arrival, so I decided to explore the back terrace we’d glimpsed the evening before. I headed into the main hall and found Marianne sitting on one of the sofas in front of the French doors, sipping at a bowl-sized cup of café au lait.
    â€œAh, Bonjour , Nora. You catch me at my morning duties. At this hour my guests are usually in their rooms, and I use the time to review the menus and the day’s schedule. But in fact, I was just thinking about you.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYes, I realize my decision about where to put Monsieur Daglan will inconvenience you, and I regret it. Jackie asked me to arrange a room for the interviews, and because it had to have a phone, a table, and a closed door, the library seemed the best place. Now I realize you may lose all of today. Perhaps the inspector will finish his work by lunchtime, and then you could work in the library from after lunch till dinner.”
    â€œThat would be fine, Marianne.” The original plan was for us to cook in the morning and for me to do my research in the afternoon. “I wasn’t planning on getting in much work today anyhow. I’ll leave you to your planning if you’ll permit me to walk out in the gardens.”
    â€œOf course, go right ahead. And if you walk back to the statues and turn right, you’ll find a path that will take you along the cliff. There’s a lovely view of the river.”
    â€œWill I be able to get back in time for the inspector?”
    â€œOh, yes. It’s about a twenty-minute walk. The path ends at a little stone building, our modest Lady Chapel. If you head straight back, you’ll be right on time for Monsieur Daglan. Jackie said the questioning will start with you.”
    Hurrying to keep to schedule, I moved quickly down a lane bordered by roses and passed the statues that shone white against the high boxwood hedges at the garden’s limit, leading me to the cliff path. Its ample width signaled that this had once been a bridle path, though there was nothing underfoot to suggest the recent presence of horses. The well-trampled grass did suggest someone walked here often, but the path was informally tended. Woodsy plants crept in from the forest edge on the left—wild geraniums, tiny pale violets, and even red poppies where the sun struck a patch.
    I took a big breath of cool, damp air and walked rapidly down the path, which grew darker as oak branches overhung ever more thickly. After perhaps ten minutes, I noticed that some of the boxwoods at cliff’s edge to my right had been sculpted into topiary. The spaces between the topiary offered quick glimpses of the opposite cliff, now obscured, since it was backlit by the sun on its rise in the east. In the valley between one cliff and the other, the Dordogne River sparkled on its way toward Bordeaux. But I tried to keep my eye on the path forward, seeking the turn that would bring me to my destination, the chapel that Marianne had mentioned. It had been constructed at the outermost jutting of the promontory behind the chateau. The door had been propped open with a stone. Inside I found six wooden chairs, a kneeler, and an altar draped with a white linen cloth, which was a bit worse for weather-wear, though it looked as if it had been replaced since winter. A small statue of a Black Madonna stood on the altar, surrounded by half-spent candles and by vases stuffed with roses that were still fresh. Affixed to the walls were plaques thanking the Virgin for healing loved ones. A few were dated from the 1950s and ’60s, but most were much older, and a badly eroded one seemed to have a date