Cezanne's Quarry by Barbara Pope Read Free Book Online Page A

continued, “do you think of Cézanne?”
    “Frankly, I think he is a bore.”
    “Capable of murder?”
    This question seemed to catch the Englishman off guard. One could almost read his thoughts: Should he try to save himself by accusing his rival? Or would that be admitting to his jealousy? Martin sat very still as he waited for a response, hoping against hope for some reaction. A rash accusation. Or a theory of the crime. Anything. Even Joseph’s pen did not move. Finally, Martin added, “What would you say if I told you we found a piece of a canvas in the quarry and that it may have been painted by Cézanne?”
    “Nothing.” Westerbury was breathing hard. “I would say nothing.”
    “Are you sure?”
    The Englishman only nodded. Once again he began to stare out the window, drifting away into a sea of private troubles.
    Martin straightened his position in his chair as he frantically rehearsed in his mind what he needed to ask about the days immediately surrounding the murder. “Mr. Westerbury, where were you on August 17th and 18th?”
    “Tramping about Mont Sainte-Victoire. Trying to decide whether it should become the cornerstone of my work. I camped there overnight.” This came out in a monotone.
    “Alone?”
    “Quite.”
    Martin wrote down “no alibi” and gave Westerbury time to consider his vulnerability on this issue. Silence.
    “And Mme Vernet? Where do you think she was?”
    “At home. The only thing she had planned for the week was to follow the Procession on the Feast of the Assumption. Most of our circle was out of town. So she was going to take the time to read and to write.” He hesitated. “Letters.”
    “Do you have any of these?” said Martin, alert. The letters might offer some clues about Solange Vernet and her past.
    “No, they were sent.”
    Sent. Gone . “You don’t know what these were about.”
    “No, I don’t.” The Englishman’s eyes were fixed on the floor.
    “Then, when was the last time you saw Mme Vernet?”
    “We were supposed to sup together, late, when I returned from Sainte-Victoire. But Arlette said she had gotten a message—”
    “A message?” Martin asked sharply.
    Westerbury shook his head. “There’s no hope there. I got so worried when Solange was still gone this morning that I asked Arlette to tell me everything that happened before Solange left. She only told me that Solange had read the note, dressed, and rushed out of the house. She didn’t recognize the boy who brought it, either.”
    “Did the maid see the note? Would she recognize the handwriting?” Martin’s excitement was mounting.
    Westerbury looked up at Martin. “She doesn’t read.”
    Taking up his pen again, Martin wrote, “Search for message in Vernet apartment and at the scene. Look for the messenger.” Then he set it aside. “Do you think that the note summoned Mme Vernet to the quarry?”
    Westerbury shrugged.
    “Were you in the habit of going to the quarry?”
    “I’ve taken my students there to hunt for fossils and to show them the strata formations,” the Englishman said with a weary sigh, “to give them some idea about the age of the earth and its powers of regeneration.”
    “Women?”
    “Yes, women.”
    Cartloads of corseted women wandering with baskets and pickaxes? What did this man think he was doing? “And Mme Vernet? Did she ever go there?”
    Westerbury’s “yes” was barely audible. He was still clinging to his hat, which now hung between his legs.
    “When? Why?” Martin spoke in short jabs to penetrate the pall that was fast descending over his suspect.
    “A few times. For picnics. She considered it a good healthy walk. We’d picnic under the trees and then I’d take her to the rocks. She always laughed about all the adventures I must have had there with ‘my ladies.’” Each word dropped from Westerbury’s lips more slowly and more quietly, until he burst out again. “ Oh God ,” he gasped in English. “ Oh God , my beloved in that