Free Murder in Lascaux by Betsy Draine Page B

views of the river and the ochre cliffs opposite. At last the château was in sight.
    When I arrived at the rose garden and approached the terrace, I saw Inspector Daglan was seated outside in front of the French doors, waiting for me and sipping from a tiny cup of espresso. He stood up as I approached, extending a big, hammy hand for a formal handshake.
    â€œ Bonjour , Madame Barnes. Would you please follow me into the interview room?” I did as I was told, glancing down at my watch to confirm that I wasn’t late. It was one minute before ten o’clock, but already I felt at a disadvantage.
    After seating himself at the master’s desk in the library, with me opposite in a straight-backed chair, Daglan gave me the full squint treatment—head cocked to the side, mouth pursed as if to muffle a scoff, and eyes like slits. He stared, and I waited him out. That seemed to earn his respect. He began with a series of perfunctory questions. How long had I been working at Sonoma College, where had I been born, had I ever been to France before, where else in Europe had I traveled? I replied calmly. Those were the easy questions. Then one took me by surprise.
    â€œNow I’d like you to tell me about your work as an art historian. What exactly are your interests?”
    This was a morning for complicated questions. First Guillaume, now Daglan. Why did he want to know about my work?
    â€œWell, I have a number of interests,” I began. “At the college level we make a distinction between what we can teach and what we do our research on, our area of specialization.”
    â€œLet’s start with your research, then.”
    â€œAll right. I wrote my dissertation on women painters in the nineteenth century who studied at the Académie Julian in Paris. The reason I’m here, as I told you yesterday, is that I’m doing research on Jenny Marie Cazelle. She attended the Académie, along with many others.” I paused to see if he had a follow-up question.
    â€œThat is your primary subject? Women artists?”
    â€œYes, it is. I also teach a survey of European art, a general course in the nineteenth century, and—”
    Daglan cut in. “This survey, what does it cover?”
    â€œThe basic history of Western art.”
    â€œAnd where do you begin?”
    Now I saw where he was going. “With prehistoric art,” I replied calmly. “ C’est logique ,” I added—trying to appeal simultaneously to the French inspector’s faith in logic and to his national pride.
    â€œSo then you have a professional interest in our cave paintings?” It seemed an accusation.
    â€œI suppose so, but I’m not a scholar in the field. The fact that I can give an introductory lecture on the subject doesn’t mean I’m an expert.”
    â€œPerhaps it is my ignorance of your profession, but I find your answer somewhat confusing.”
    â€œThen I haven’t expressed myself well, Inspector. I regret my French isn’t good enough to make these fine distinctions, so let me try again. What I meant to say is that as far as teachers of art history go, I am not an expert in prehistoric art.”
    â€œThen what was the purpose of your visit to Lascaux, when you applied to the authorities for permission?”
    He had me there. I sidestepped the question. “Inspector, no one would pass up an opportunity to see the original paintings in Lascaux. They’re world-famous. I’m not a Renaissance scholar either, but anyone interested in art would want to visit the Sistine Chapel if she were in Italy !”
    â€œSo you prevailed upon the authorities to make an exception to their rules and allow you to visit as a tourist.”
    That might have been the case, but it wasn’t a capital crime. I didn’t reply.
    â€œAnd your companion, Monsieur Sandler, is he also here simply as a tourist?”
    That was a strange way of putting things. I felt