She crossed to the broken window, careful not to touch anything, and leaned near to study the exterior of the building. Whoever entered had to slide behind the tall hedge and then climb up to the window. There wasn’t room for a ladder, which meant that an intruder would have to hoist himself by his hands and perhaps feet, scrabbling up the wall and breaking the glass, then jumping inside. Difficult, but not impossible for a grown man or a tall woman.
“Certainly, I tried to see him,” Dupré answered. “I’d knocked once or twice and he called out that he was busy. That wasn’t unusual. If he was working with metals, he couldn’t be disturbed and interrupt the play of heat and timing.”
Agnes returned to the former kitchen to inspect the piece of equipment fixed to the floor in place of a stove. Judging by the thick exterior, it was a small forge. She opened the door and peered in. There were a few tiny fragments of what looked like paper. She frowned. The nature of Guy Chavanon’s work was difficult to judge. It wasn’t at all what she had expected, even disregarding the chaos. She crossed to the entrance.
Dupré blocked the doorway. “A couple of times he hollered out that I’d be better off taking a drink up at the house.”
“Marie is a very welcoming hostess,” said Christine. She was upright again. Pale but focused.
“Yes, she is,” Dupré said sharply. “Your stepmother has always been an excellent hostess. I don’t see a reason to take that tone about it. Your father was very proud of her.”
He flushed and Agnes eyed him speculatively. “Can either of you tell if something has been removed?” she asked.
Christine stood at the threshold, shaking her head. “There’s no way to know.”
Dupré shrugged.
“Inspector,” Christine said, “you’ve asked why I left three years ago. We weren’t surviving. I needed a job in case my father closed the company. That’s why I didn’t want to come inside earlier. I wanted to remember the good times, the past.”
“But the business didn’t close,” said Agnes.
“Not yet. I estimated he had about three years of capital left. I needed more than dreams of the next great innovation. I needed to be assured of a salary.”
“He had a new investor,” said Dupré.
Christine looked up, surprised. “For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said you were exaggerating when you spoke with Monsieur Vallotton at the funeral?” Agnes said.
“About not being surprised that Guy died, but I was serious about the other. He hadn’t been himself. He mentioned the money to me maybe six months ago.”
“He didn’t say anything to me. Marie never told me.” Christine’s tone was accusatory. Agnes saw the disillusionment of a child understanding that the parent has a three-dimensional life beyond her.
“He only hinted to me after a few drinks, made me swear I’d not tell a soul. I didn’t. After that he grew distant.”
“I had no idea,” said Christine. “He didn’t mention who or what?”
“No, only that it was big and Perrault et Chavanon would last through this century.”
“Then everything is fine. Marie can continue.” Christine’s voice faltered, and Agnes wondered if the young woman now regretted leaving her father’s company. If she had stayed, she could have led the business into the future. Now her decision was made. She worked for a global brand. Had that made her a traitor in their eyes?
“I’m going to call the local gendarmerie,” Agnes said. “They’ll secure the building and gather any evidence.”
“I need to see a doctor. My arm is bleeding again.”
“Marie won’t believe this.” Dupré waved an arm around. “But she should be grateful. What if she’d left it for weeks? The place would freeze up, animals might wander in. Mice would eat all this junk she’ll want to save.”
“Junk? This”—Christine gestured wildly—“this is a testament to my father’s genius. It’s … he was right and I didn’t listen. He was working on something important.”
Agnes ushered them off the porch. “I didn’t see a safe. Is there one, or somewhere he would have kept his important documents?”
“The only safe is in the factory.” Christine leaned against a porch column as if faint.
“Guy would have been more likely to bury his notes than put them in a safe,” added Dupré. “He always did things his own way.”
“An idea important enough to steal,” said Christine softly.
“Or kill for,” said Dupré.
Christine gasped and clutched her injured arm. “But he was already dead when they broke in.”
“Are you sure?” said Agnes. “Monsieur Dupré, you said that you didn’t think anyone had been here since Monsieur Chavanon died. We don’t know when he last entered. Someone could have broken in after he left and before he died.”
Christine opened her mouth to speak, then shut it.
Dupré spoke for her. “Who would have thought Guy was really onto something.”
Ten
A distant clock struck one and Agnes glanced skyward, easing her foot off the gas pedal. Guy Chavanon’s workshop was a processing nightmare. That was the pronouncement of the local officer who’d arrived at the scene in response to her call. Only when she’d offered to bring in reinforcements had the man backed down, assuring her that his team was up to the task.
Agnes had taken the man at his word and decided she wasn’t needed. Marie Chavanon wasn’t responding to phone calls, and Christine had agreed to let Stephan Dupré take her to the hospital for stitches. It was time to go to the school where Guy Chavanon died.
By the time she arrived, the morning sun had disappeared behind clouds, and the countryside near Rossemaison was wrapped in a dark gloom. In the distance, snow blanketed the higher elevations. She slowed her car. According to Christine Chavanon’s directions, she would reach the Moutier Institut de Jeunes Gens a few kilometers before the village.
It was a pretty drive with woods on both sides. Tree branches formed a partial canopy overhead. As she rounded the final bend, the Institute came into view, and Agnes pulled her car into a parking space off the circular drive. The towering chalet reminded her of George’s family home. The chalet belonging to her in-laws wasn’t half as large as the one in front of her, but both were elegant in that rustic traditional way beloved by Swiss and tourists alike.
A discreet sign instructed visitors to enter, and the front door opened into a medium-size room. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all burnished wood, and the atmosphere was inviting. There were a few small tables and groups of brightly upholstered comfortable chairs. The tables held artfully arranged brochures and magazines featuring the Institute and life in Switzerland, while the walls were covered with photographs of enthusiastic students and instructors dating back over a hundred years. Agnes noted that the boarding school was all-male. Evidently the Institute was either old-fashioned or deeply traditional.
She walked down the broad corridor that cut through the middle of the building until a small area opened up, fronted by a desk. A middle-aged woman jumped to her feet. Agnes glanced at the placard. She’d spoken with Madame Jomini earlier. Agnes presented her credentials and waited while the receptionist slipped into the inner office.
The woman who emerged with Madame Jomini was tall, well dressed, and unstintingly headmistress. In a cool and unwelcoming tone she gave her name as Helene Fontenay. She angled forward unnaturally as if there was a problem with her hips, with her wrists pressed against forearm crutches. Otherwise, she was lean and elegant with shoulder-length light brown hair pinned back on both sides with small metal clips. She wore little makeup: pale lipstick and a light application of mascara. The result emphasized her clear skin and gray eyes. Upon a second glance, Agnes decided that the headmistress was younger than her stern demeanor let on, probably in her early thirties.
To set the tone of an informal discussion, Agnes complimented the beauty of the chalet. When Madame Fontenay didn’t rep
ly, Agnes moved past her into the office, uninvited.
That room told the history of the school. In it, were elements of the past and visible nods to the current leadership. The center was occupied by an enormous partner’s desk. It was surrounded by seating areas with chairs, a sofa, and appropriate tables, all contriving to lend an atmosphere more suited to a sitting room than a place to work. The furniture was a mix of antique and modern designs, and Agnes suspected that the modern pieces were chosen by Madame Fontenay; they seemed a fair reflection of her cold personal style.
Agnes removed her coat and laid it across a hassock. “Should we wait on the headmaster to discuss Monsieur Chavanon’s death?” She claimed a cushioned chair in front of the desk, tucking her skirt under her and setting her handbag on the floor.
Helene Fontenay sighed audibly and crossed the room. Agnes was surprised by how swiftly the woman moved, despite her crutches.
“This is unnecessary,” the headmistress said, ignoring her desk and sitting in a hard-backed chair across from Agnes. “We don’t need to wait on my husband. And I don’t know why you’re here with questions. It was a terrible day and we’ve put it behind us.”
“Were you there when Monsieur Chavanon died?”
Helene touched the row of small pearl buttons that closed her pale yellow sweater. “Not in the room. But I spoke with the police. They spoke with everyone. Having you here only disrupts our routine and frightens the boys.”
“I have three sons of an age to attend your school. I don’t think they frighten that easily.”
“Monsieur Chavanon’s son will be upset. The funeral was only two days ago. Your visit will fuel talk about his father’s death.”
“Madame Fontenay, I think that the boys are going to talk about what happened no matter what we do. Leo will probably want to talk about it with his friends. I know my boys would.”
Agnes remembered telling them that their father had died. The shock and tears and denial. The anger. Eventually they said that they understood, although she knew they didn’t. She could barely understand, and they couldn’t conceive of permanence the way she did. Later she’d overheard them talking together, and with their friends, and was convinced that was where the healing began.
She continued, “Leo Chavanon lives in La Chaux-de-Fonds, an easy driving distance, yet he boards. Are your students required to board?”
“I don’t know why you are asking these questions.”
“Interest, right now. Is there something that concerns you? Something you’d rather I not inquire about?”
Madame Fontenay pressed her lips together. A minute passed. The only sound was the ticktock of a large cuckoo clock high on a far wall.
“We have eighty pupils,” Madame Fontenay said. “All boys and all in residence. The older ones are in the newer dormitory, the younger in this building.”
“And the teachers and the staff? They live here?”
“Of course not. My husband and I do, but none of the others.” Madame Fontenay motioned to a door at the far end of the room. “The stair to our apartment is there. Completely private. The faculty rotate sleeping on the premises. One each on the dormitory floor of the chalet and in the new building.”
Agnes wondered why a woman who needed crutches would want to walk up the stairs between her office and apartment. Surely they could have accommodated private quarters on the ground floor of such a large building. “How many faculty?”
“Sixteen teachers and the same number in other jobs: secretaries, housekeeping, gardeners, a chef and his assistant. There are small villages on either side of us and most live there, or on local family farms.”
“Have the staff said anything about the day Monsieur Chavanon died?”
“There is nothing to say.” Madame Fontenay smoothed the front of her sweater again.
“Nothing at all? No gossip about what happened?” Agnes smoothed her own wool skirt. “In my experience people like to talk about a shocking event. It helps them make sense of what they’ve seen.”
“Rumors,” said Madame Fontenay. “Falsehoods, figments of imagination, and folly.” She took a deep breath and her voice calmed. “Rumors are to be expected in a closed community like this one. We know how to deal with it. We may be new to the Institute, but we know how to run a school. We know our job.”
“What is our job, darling?” A tall red-haired man stepped into the room, glowing with health and enthusiasm.
Madame Fontenay introduced her husband to Agnes. In contrast to his wife, Bernard Fontenay gripped Agnes’s hand warmly.
“Delighted. Delighted. Madame Jomini found me and said you were here. Darling, I’m famished. Do you think a snack might be arranged?”
Agnes expected the headmistress to ring for staff, but Madame Fontenay nodded tersely and left. She allowed the office door to bang shut behind her.
“Horrible thing, Chavanon dying.” Bernard Fontenay unwound a scarf from around his neck and dropped it onto a side table.
“I imagine it was a shock to the students who were there. To everyone really. You didn’t have any reason to wonder if it was more than an accident?”
“No.” He looked at her wide-eyed. “Surely you don’t think it was purposeful? How could it be? I thought these were routine questions. This sounds like you are opening an investigation.”
“I would like to talk to everyone who was here that day. I’m making sure we haven’t overlooked anything important.”
Fontenay took a seat opposite her, his long legs filling the space between them. “Better you than the locals, keeps it on an elevated plain. Most of the teachers and the students attended the reception, or planned to. They weren’t all there when Monsieur Chavanon collapsed, and once he did, we closed off the dining room and no one else entered. As you can imagine, the reception was over at that point. Of course, the parents—” He looked concerned. “You won’t need to talk with them, will you? We have to be careful of the school’s reputation, you understand.”
“How many were here?”
“We had planned to hand out the ski awards, and it was a large gathering. It was a busy day and afterwards with the confusion…” He shrugged.
“Did they RSVP?”
“What? Oh, yes. I hadn’t thought of that. Madame Jomini will have a list of who responded. Hard to know who had actually arrived. Of course, Monsieur Chavanon was there. He had a friend with him. Monsieur Patel, an Indian gentleman. I didn’t see them before—” Fontenay wrung his hands. “Before it was over. I don’t know who among the others Chavanon knew. Many of the parents are nodding acquaintances, a few are friendlier, and several are intimately connected. Extended family, even. The dining room was full, and there were six or seven more sets of parents outside on the lawn when it happened, watching their sons show off their soccer skills. It was cold, but they can’t be forced to stay inside.”
“You were in the room when Monsieur Chavanon died?”
“You know who would have the best recollection? Monsieur Navarro. Jorge Navarro is always first to arrive, plus he has an excellent memory. Talk to him and you’ll have a better idea to start from.” He stood abruptly, propelled by restless energy.
Agnes slipped her notebook into her handbag. “Your wife mentioned rumors. She said that they’re to be expected, but she didn’t mention what they were precisely.”
“The usual nonsense was what she meant. The boys are imaginative. I remember being at school and trying to scare the younger forms. We invented a ghost who lived on the dormitory floor. It all seems so silly now. No levelheaded adult would believe half of what we said.”
Agnes found it interesting that he thought of the students while his wife indicated the staff. Perhaps a representation of their natural division of duties? Clearly they both had heard rumors they didn’t want to discuss.
“Madame Fontenay was troubled by my presence. I think she’d rather I not speak with anyone.”
“Helene? She’ll be happy it’s dealt with.”
&nb
sp; “I had the opposite impression. She clearly thinks my presence—any police presence—is problematic.”
“She doesn’t like disruption in routine, but she’ll cooperate.”
He sat down again and leaned forward, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. “I shouldn’t make light of the situation. Helene wouldn’t like it. You see, I’m Swiss. Taught at Oxford after taking my degree, but I wanted to do more than teach. Actually, I wanted to return here. To this landscape.” He gestured broadly as if the walls of the room couldn’t block his connection with the countryside. “I thought it would be good for Helene after the accident. We put together the money and bought into the Institute nearly three years ago. It’s our life.”
He rubbed the knuckles of one hand with the other. They looked like the hands of an academic. The skin was nearly perfect. Fontenay was a man who dealt with the world through his head, not his hands. And now his world, their entire investment, their livelihood, was resting on maintaining an illusion of complete calm and safety at the Institute, something so deeply Swiss that, even after a lifetime, Agnes had a difficult time understanding it.
Fontenay rose to stand near the door. “Come along. Let’s put this to rest.”
Eleven
Bernard Fontenay suggested they begin their tour outside so Agnes would have a sense of the scale of the Institute before diving in, as he put it, to the details of the buildings. He was clearly proud of the establishment. As they walked, he pointed toward various buildings ringing the central lawn.
“The dormitory for the older boys is the nearest building on the right. Beyond that is a classroom building. You can’t see it from here, but farther out is our indoor pool. Across the lawn is the newest academic facility, where all the science labs are.”
A Well-Timed Murder Page 8