Free Murder in Lascaux by Betsy Draine Page A

of 1818. The only plaque that didn’t refer to an illness was dated 1944 and bore the inscription “Deliver us from evil.” I felt like an intruder, stumbling upon these faded supplications from another era.
    When I looked for a match to light a taper, I realized the statue had been blackened by smoke from countless candles lit for prayer. I was about to add my flame to the history but didn’t see a match, so I turned round to head back. Stepping over the threshold, I nearly toppled into Guillaume, who was trying to enter as I was trying to leave.
    â€œExcuse me!” he exclaimed, giving a deep bow. I had stumbled, and he reached out to right me as he rose from his position. When I looked up at his face, I thought I saw cunning, not apology, or even surprise. “Forgive me for interrupting your visit. But how did you know that our Lady Chapel was open at this early hour?”
    â€œMarianne suggested I take the cliff walk; and the chapel door was open, so I stepped in. I wanted a walk before meeting with Inspector Daglan. I really have to rush back for that. He’ll be waiting.”
    â€œThat’s a pity. There’s another walk I could show you if you are interested, that is, if you are truly devoted to Our Lady. Am I mistaken? Are you one of her devotees?”
    I didn’t want to lie on a matter like this. But a true answer would have been more complicated than my rusty French could convey. So I stuck to the facts. “Well, as a girl, I went to Catholic school.” A sweet memory came flooding back, and I let it out without thinking. “In fact, one year I even led my school’s May Day procession. The nuns chose me to crown the Virgin with flowers that day.”
    â€œDid they? You must have struck them as a pious child.”
    â€œNot really. I was just a good student and also a little romantic about convent life. They may have thought I ‘had a vocation,’ as they used to say. But that wasn’t so.”
    Guillaume’s mood turned in a flash. “It’s just as well you escaped from them.” His eyes swept over my body approvingly.
    I started to duck out the door.
    â€œBut if you still have an interest in such things,” Guillaume continued, “perhaps you will allow me on another day to show you a famous local site, the Virgin’s holy spring. It is deep in the chasm between Cazelle and Beynac, but that’s only a few kilometers, by the footpath.”
    â€œI would like that very much,” I replied, insincerely.
    â€œThe pleasure will be mine. I am delighted to find that you have an affinity for our traditions. I was just saying so to my sister last night, after dinner. She thought I might have offended you with my comments about the patrimony of Périgord.”
    â€œNot at all, Monsieur. I hope to learn more about your heritage.” That much was true.
    â€œExactly! That’s what I told Marianne. It’s a question of heritage. My sister gets out of sorts when I talk about the old ways. She fears people will think it strange if I express my feeling for the past. But I find that—”
    â€œI’m so sorry,” I interrupted, “but I really do have to go. My appointment with Inspector Daglan. Perhaps we can continue this discussion at our next dinner. A bientôt, Monsieur .”
    I hustled through the doorway and back along the cliff path, pondering the complexities of Guillaume’s character. At dinner he had seemed a bored aristocrat and then suddenly a passionate traditionalist. And his religious ideas were a jumble—love of the Virgin Mary, but disdain for a nun’s vocation. I wondered what turned his emotional switches on and off so abruptly. He’d be interesting to watch during our week’s stay at his castle. But at a distance. I didn’t want to find myself alone with him again.
    I turned back and retraced my steps at a jogger’s pace, hardly able to enjoy the