Murder in Lascaux (14 page)

A length of about four feet in the middle of the long oak table was covered by red oilcloth, which was stabilized at one end by a wooden cutting board, flanked with knives and pounders. The other end was weighed down by four white bowls, each filled with ruby-red raspberries. Marianne motioned us to seat ourselves on the cane-backed chairs flanking the two bare ends of the table.

“I think you already know my helpers,” she continued. “Madame Martin will be my sous chef, which is ironic, since I learned to cook at her mother's knee.” Madame Martin, standing just behind Marianne, smiled proudly.

Gesturing toward the big sink in the corner of the room, she pointed out a male figure in a white outfit, with a bright blue scarf holding back black curls. He had been hidden from view as we entered. “Our assistant will be Fernando, who, you will find, is a jack-of-all-trades.”

I flinched as he turned his unsmiling face and gave us a quick, severe glance. I was sorry to be seated so I had a full view of his station, but I was glad my back wasn't to him—that would have made me even more nervous. Toby shot a warning look in his direction, but by then Fernando had already turned away. I patted Toby's arm to reduce the tension. He nodded reassuringly; we didn't need a scene.

“This will be your menu for the day,” Marianne said, producing for each of us a single sheet headed with an announcement of the three courses for our lunch:

Salade de chèvre et d'huile de noix

Green salad with goat cheese and walnut oil

Escalopes de dinde sautées aux morilles et noix

Turkey scallops pan-fried with morel mushrooms and walnuts

Coupes de framboises marinées

Cups of marinated raspberries

Underneath the menu, the salad title was repeated and there was a list of ingredients followed by a blank space. I looked on the other side of the paper and found that the turkey and dessert dishes were treated the same way. The name of the dish and a list of its ingredients were there, but there was an empty space where recipe directions ought to be.

“Our sessions will be collaborations,” Marianne explained. “For each class, I have selected two courses for which the technique is easy. I will prepare those quickly in front of you. Then there will be one course where you need to practice a technique, and I will call on you to do that. Meanwhile, for all the dishes, you will write the directions down as you observe me. Don't worry, at the end of the course you will receive a booklet of the recipes with my directions—but what you write down yourself is what you'll remember best. So, have faith in your eyes and ears, and don't forget to keep taking notes.”

The raspberries got tackled first. Marianne cautioned simplicity in treating fresh fruit and yet encouraged creativity in choosing an accent flavor. She proceeded to toss one bowl of berries with a few tablespoons of sugar and shreds of freshly cut mint. There was no mixing spoon, just Marianne's clean hands, taking care not to bruise the tender berries. With each bowl, she upped the ante—adding lemon juice and a larger quantity of sugar to the second bowl, dousing the third bowl with two tablespoons of raspberry eau-de-vie and a dash of sugar, and lacing the last batch with cognac and honey.

Toby, I noticed, had lost his focus because he was periodically casting about for Fernando, who was in and out of the room. Whenever their eyes met, Toby sent him a piercing glance, which Fernando shrugged off nonchalantly. I began to worry that Toby was getting too worked up.

Within a short time, Madame Martin was carrying the berry bowls to a closed cupboard, and we were on to the next course, or rather, to the first. Marianne explained we had started with a dish that benefits from advance preparation—those berries could marinate for half a day, if necessary. We would proceed to a dish that should be prepared just before serving, a simple salad dressed with walnut oil. And we would serve it (to ourselves) immediately, as a first course, even though in France the traditional place for salad is after the meat. The salad proved delicious, a concoction of lettuce leaves coated with walnut-oil vinaigrette and topped with a slice of warmed goat cheese and a fresh leaf of basil.

I was totally absorbed in the lesson and for the time being forgot about Fernando—until his sudden presence at my right side put me back on edge. He was only taking away my salad plate, but I reflexively pulled in my elbows and avoided his touch. As Fernando reached to remove Toby's plate, Toby stayed his hand by grasping his wrist. “I'm not finished yet,” Toby said slowly, looking down at his plate, which still held a few leaves of lettuce. Then he relaxed his grip, a second later than was friendly. Fernando shrugged and moved away. “Just a little pissing contest,” Toby whispered cheerfully, “to give him something to think about.”

“Men!” I muttered, shaking my head. But I wasn't entirely sorry he had done it.

As Fernando continued with his removals, Marianne began preparing the meat course. She stood at the cutting-board end of the demonstration area and accepted from Madame Martin a plump but small turkey breast, about the size of an open hand. With a thin carbon-steel knife, Marianne cut quarter-inch slices and gave each a light pounding, to halve its thickness. As she worked, she explained this turkey breast came from the aviary kept by Fernando's wife, Elena. The household relied on Elena's bird pens for quail, partridge, and pheasant, and on her fowl runs for free-range chicken, duck, geese, and turkeys. Marianne added that we should make a point of walking over to their cottage to see the birds. I looked up at Fernando, who was about to wash the salad dishes, but he seemed not to have heard. He stood stiffly, with dishes in either hand.

For the next hour, we worked at the stovetops, frying bacon and onions, tossing morel mushrooms in the bacon fat, and creating a vegetable sauce by adding chopped green peppers, shallots, celery, and white wine. While all this simmered, we sautéed the turkey scallops and sprinkled them with chopped walnuts. It was almost time to eat. I turned from the stoves to get another glimpse of Fernando, and there he was, rapidly resetting the table for the main course—that is, working well in tandem with his boss, Marianne. I turned my attention back to our teacher and took notes on her instructions about presentation. Then, like the rest of the students, I returned to my place at table, with a filled plate in hand. Marianne and Madame Martin sat in the middle, where the oilcloth had been, and ate with us, while Fernando attended, pouring wine and water, and waiting for the time to clear.

In true French fashion, coffee came after dessert, and we chatted about our plans for the rest of the day. David and Lily were going to visit the archaeology museum at Les Eyzies, but David suggested we four should take a walk over to the bird coops beforehand. I was for it. That would revive my energy, before my long sit in the library. And I was secretly grateful I'd have company with me when I ventured onto Fernando's turf. I was curious to see the birds, but I wouldn't want to go alone.

A path led us behind the old stables and across a mown field to a group of outbuildings. Between a wooden shed on one side and a two-story house on the other, the ground had been cleared and covered by a neat structure of poles and chicken wire, creating an open-air aviary that was almost as large as the house itself. All manner of fowl were caged in there, kept from flight by a mesh roof. They huddled into the half that was shaded by a linden tree. I recognized the quail and pheasants Marianne had mentioned, but there were many smaller birds too. The pen was clean, and the birds looked alert. They gave only a healthy pungent scent, which was lucky, since the house was feet away, and outside the kitchen door there was a pebbled patio with table and chairs, where Fernando and his wife doubtless took their summer meals.

Lily and I lingered in front of the aviary, trying to name the birds and wondering whether the medium-sized ones were crows or some French species with a more appetizing name. Our men had moved quickly toward the vegetable garden, which lay beyond the house. We noticed the garden was as large as a tennis court, and its rows were meticulously hoed. The midsummer crops were closest to the house— lettuce, peas, beans, peppers, tomatoes, and summer squash—with ranks of corn and leeks and onions behind, followed by plants that would ripen later: carrots, potatoes, and winter squash. Behind the aviary a grassy field was cordoned off for a pen containing ducks and small turkeys. Next to that was a chicken yard with a thickly canopied tree and a roofed hut for egg-laying and chick-tending. Beyond the pens was an orchard of walnut trees, fenced round to keep in a huge flock of geese. Wherever there was shade, fowl were waddling and pecking at the ground.

David returned, tapping his watch, and announced he and Lily had to hurry off. I didn't see where Toby was but assumed he was exploring, so I decided to do the same. I said goodbye to the Presses and started walking toward the goose yard, when I noticed the squat tower at the left of the house's roof-line. That was a
pigeonnier
—or dovecote. The tiny windows were for the entrance and exit of mourning doves. I raised my eyes, hoping to see one emerge. But I didn't have to wait for that. A pair of slim gray doves was perched on the roof. I hesitated and then tried my version of a coo. That did it. One of the two birds flapped down and landed within two yards of me, on the doorstep of the dovecote. Suddenly I felt my pulse racing. The pierced bird in Lascaux could have been the twin of the one at my feet.

I bent forward, to try to catch the bird, but it flew away. I was leaning on the dovecote door when I felt myself grabbed from behind by both shoulders. Brute force twisted me round, and there was Fernando, preparing to march me off his property.

“
Qu'est ce que vous fâites?
” he growled—What are you doing?— omitting the obligatory “Madame.”

But Toby, who had observed Fernando coming toward me, was on his heels. He gave Fernando the same treatment Fernando had given me—grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him round. I was flung back and landed on my backside.

“Take your hands off my wife!” said Toby in a steely voice, giving Fernando a hard shove, propelling him backward. Fernando's legs went out from under him, and he went sprawling in the dust. It was over in a matter of seconds. Fernando scrambled to his feet and looked for a moment as if he were ready to give battle, but he thought better of it and retreated.

“Those are my birds,” he said sullenly. “You have no right.”

“And you have no right to touch my wife,” said Toby, helping me up.

The two men glared at each other for a tense moment. Then, abruptly, Fernando turned and strode off toward his house. “You have no right,” he muttered again over his shoulder.

Oh God, I thought, we've really done it now! What will Marianne think of us? “Toby, you shouldn't have done that.”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“Look, we're guests here, and he's staff. He had a right to object to my snooping around his yard.”

“But he doesn't have the right to manhandle the guests. He's lucky all I did was push him. What's so awful about looking around his yard?”

I told Toby of my discovery. “Look.” He followed my pointing finger. The two doves were perched again on the roof.

“So that's what made him so hostile. Maybe you're on to something.”

“Maybe. It's just possible the dead bird in the cave came from that dovecote.”

“It's possible. But I'll bet there are hundreds of dovecotes in the Dordogne. It could have come from any one of them.”

“Even so, we'd better mention it to Inspector Daglan, don't you think? I wonder if there's any way of telling whether a bird came from a particular dovecote?”

“I doubt it, but yes, we should mention it to Daglan. And look, if you're worried about Marianne, you can say I apologize for pushing Fernando and I'll be a good boy from now on. Say I'm overly protective or whatever.”

“You think maybe you are?”

“Not really. But the way you're standing with your hands on your hips tells me you think so. Am I right?”

“I could have handled the situation myself, Toby. Now you've created a problem for me.”

“Do you want me to apologize to Fernando?”

“It might help.”

He paused and took a breath. “All right, I can do that. And meanwhile, I'm going to act as if nothing happened. I'm going off to scout antiques and leave you to your research for the afternoon. Are you still up to that?”

“Yes. Just promise me there won't be any more fighting.”

“I promise not to start anything, how's that?”

“Toby …”

“All right, I promise.”

“That's good. Now off you go.”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Yes, I'm all right. Go on. I'll see you later.”

M
arianne was waiting at the entrance to the library at two o'clock, as we had arranged, but she was not looking friendly. “Nora! What's this I hear about your husband brawling with Fernando?” she demanded. “He told me you were trampling all over his bird pens and that when he asked you to leave, your husband threw him to the ground. I can't have that sort of behavior from my guests. I'm surprised at you.”

“I'm sorry it happened, Marianne. But Toby sometimes goes all chivalrous on me. He gets rather protective if he thinks someone is threatening me.”

“What do you mean, threatening you? Fernando told me he found you trying to enter his dovecote, where you had no reason to be.”

“I just wanted a closer look at a bird. I didn't realize he would consider that breaking into his property.”

“In fact the property belongs to me, but that doesn't make any difference. My workers are entitled to their privacy.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what was so interesting about our dovecote?”

Was it just my imagination, or was her anger turning into suspicion?