“No.”
“But now you think Guy was a genius and he was killed for his idea?” Marie gave a wild laugh. “Is this how you hope to bring him back? By building up a hollow legacy? Guy is dead. There is nothing to be done and I have to think about the future. I have to find a way to keep the company going for Leo. Fiction and dreams won’t help. I learned that long ago from my husband.”
Dupré returned to put his arms around her. “Then talk to Christine. She’s never been able to let anything go. After today she thinks he had a big idea and it was stolen. I could see it in her eyes.”
Marie relaxed against Dupré. “I’ve forgotten how hard this is for her. I’ll talk to her tomorrow and help her understand.”
Fourteen
Agnes nosed her car down the long steep lane. The last—and only—time she’d been at Château Vallotton was to investigate a murder. Her reception, everything about the circumstances that day, were unique, so she didn’t know what to expect this evening.
The gravel circle at the base of the cliff was well-groomed, and she pulled to the point nearest the massive walls of the old fortress. She parked her car and looked up through the windshield. The weather had cleared, and by craning her neck she could see all the way up to the covered parapet. In the darkness between château and cliff, the bright lights illuminating the lakeside façades created a sharp edge on both sides, accenting the darkness around her. The façade facing the cliff was bleak. The near wall was punctuated with slit windows originally intended for arrows. Light shone through here and there, but it wasn’t welcoming. She eyed the entrance. The gaping hole was large enough to drive a car through or, she realized, a horde of men-at-arms on horses.
Delaying a few more minutes, she listened to the voice mail she’d received while driving. It was Bardy. She replayed it twice, alert to all nuances of his voice, before slipping her phone into her jacket pocket, where she would feel it buzz in an emergency. It was dark and her boys were certainly off the ski slopes and at the cabin with their grandfather. Coats and gloves would be draped over warm radiators, with a fire blazing on the living-room hearth and fondue melting in a pot on the stove. There would be good-natured arguments over what size to cut the bread for dipping, and whether potatoes were better. She considered calling to say hello; a glance at the car clock told her she was already late. The cocktail hour was mercifully over; however, if she delayed any longer, she would be inexcusably late for dinner.
Stepping out of the car, she saw movement in the shadows ahead. Julien Vallotton was standing in the passageway that cut through the fortress to the central courtyard. He waved and she sighed. There was no longer any way to avoid this evening.
She passed under the château’s outer wall, unable to resist glancing overhead. The threat of an iron portcullis dropping every time you entered or left your home seemed some sort of metaphor the family had decided to accept. Beyond it, Vallotton was backlit. Fruit trees and clipped shrubs in the courtyard cast long shadows around him, like fingers. He wished her a good evening, and she shrugged off her gloves and coat. He took them without comment, even though they were still outdoors and the night was crisp.
“I apologize, I’m late.”
Vallotton was dressed in a smoking jacket, which, in her household, wouldn’t have been categorized as informal. She was wearing the same wool jacket and skirt she’d worn all day. It was one of her favorites, with a thread of blue running among the gray. The blouse was new, but it wasn’t at all dressy.
The door to the château opened and a uniformed maid stepped out. She took Agnes’s coat from Vallotton, then stepped back inside, closing the door. Agnes didn’t recognize the girl from her previous visit.
“I came straight from work,” she said, cold now and wishing she’d kept her coat on, feeling foolish.
“You look perfect. We’re glad you could come on such short notice.”
“No, Monsieur Vallotton, thank you for inviting me.”
“I’ve told you before. It’s Julien. I think we could dispense with formality, don’t you?” He stepped near and lightly gripped her by both shoulders, kissing her three times on alternating cheeks. The local habit was so ingrained that Agnes returned the gesture without thinking. He smelled like leather and old books. She felt her face flush and blamed it on the cold.
He stepped away and pushed the heavy door open, ushering her inside. The entrance hall was familiar, and she glanced up at the enormous iron chandelier, slightly surprised the candles were lit. Then she noted that there only a few electric lights. The hall was nearly as gloomy as it had been the last time she was here, when power was out across the entire region. The adjacent corridor was also deeply shadowed. Two steps inside the thick walls felt like a journey of two hundred years. She followed Vallotton and amended that to a thousand years.
She expected Vallotton to turn toward the dining room, where she had eaten with the family during the investigation into the murder on their property, but he headed in the opposite direction. She followed, heels clattering on the flagstones. She had a faint memory of this corridor, but then she’d walked every meter of the château at some point in the inquiry. Vallotton reached a final turn and she recognized the carved double doors leading to the banquet hall. She had been here only once on her previous visit. An auspicious once.
“No bad memories here, I think?”
“As long as the power doesn’t go out again,” she joked. Once inside, she nearly laughed: the banquet hall was lit entirely by candles. Silver candelabras dotted the center of a dining table, and fat candles on shoulder-high stands lined the perimeter of the room. There were six ancient but well-oiled suits of armor and a table that could easily seat forty. Tonight, the table was set for nine, and the place settings were clumped together at one end.
This was a life so far from hers that it felt like stepping into a lavish stage set.
“Inspector Lüthi,” said Julien’s aunt, moving from the shadows. The elderly woman was wearing a floor-length gown of silvery-blue pleated silk. Around her neck was an elaborate, old-fashioned diamond necklace that nearly covered her chest in a web of stones. Some of the diamonds were as large as a fingernail.
“Madame la marquise. It was kind of you to include me.” Agnes hesitated over the greeting, thinking a curtsy wouldn’t be out of line. The woman’s necklace evoked images of long-dead czarinas and genuflecting aristocrats. Before Agnes could say more, there were voices and the sound of running feet.
“Our true hostess for the evening,” said the marquise.
A small girl ran in followed by an enormous Great Dane.
“Mimi,” said Agnes, delighted to see the child. Suddenly the marquise’s necklace and elaborate gown made sense. The girl was wearing a perfectly charming and appropriate dress. But on her head was a tiara. And not a child-size one. A ruby-and-diamond crown fit for a princess. It flashed in the candlelight to full effect. Mimi put her hand to her head and grinned. A series of jeweled bracelets flashed from her wrists. The dog sat quietly beside her, wearing a diamond choker. Agnes remembered Winston and thought he appreciated the dose of glamour. Either that, or he had more important issues on his mind and didn’t care. His head reached above Agnes’s waist and she patted it, hoping he remembered her, for she certainly remembered what he’d done for them.
Mimi launched into a lengthy and detailed explanation of everything that had happened in the weeks since she’d seen Agnes. Before she finished, five adults entered. The women were dressed in cocktail attire, and the men wore suits or smoking jackets. The jewelry transformed an ordinary dinner into something fantastical.
Julien Vallotton ran through the names of the guests for Agnes, skipping her work title. She shook hands and offered greetings. One of the women stroked a heavy triple strand of pearls and diamonds that hung nearly to her waist and said, “It’s too bad you weren’t here earlier when the jewels were being handed out. I felt like I was in Aladdin’s cave.” She glanced around. “The girl is sweet
and is impossible to refuse. I should have claimed a tiara as well. Would have been a treat.”
One of the men touched a large sapphire broach affixed to his lapel. “Meant for a woman but I didn’t want to disappoint.”
The group moved to the table, and Vallotton fitted his hand beneath Agnes’s elbow, guiding her to the chair beside his. “Mimi normally takes her dinner earlier. Your visit is a special occasion for her, and somehow the whole affair turned into her version of what a grown-up evening should be.” He looked fondly down the table at the little girl. She was chattering amiably with the adults to her left and right. “She’s doing remarkably well after what happened. We indulge her. There’s no harm in it.”
Agnes enjoyed herself more than she would have thought possible. The other diners were houseguests of the Vallottons, all from London, and all clamoring for Julien Vallotton to return to that city as quickly as possible. She liked that they didn’t know about her work or her past or anything at all about her. She was a friend of the family’s to them. Not a recently widowed police inspector. They were well dressed, wealthy, she supposed, and utterly charming.
Dinner was served at a leisurely pace by a nearly invisible staff. Knowing Sybille would insist on details, Agnes paid close attention to the menu: confit de foie gras de canard and smoked salmon press with toasted sesame, pan-fried scallops with pumpkin ravioli and a tartuffon emulsion, and, following a lemon sorbet, the final course of pigeon with mushroom and bitter shoots. She slipped the place card into her handbag as a memento.
The meal ended late, with Mimi sound asleep in her chair, head tipped awkwardly to the side, tiara askew. The girl’s nanny came in to retrieve her as the plates of chocolate meringue tart were being cleared.
Soon after, the marquise rose. “Madame Lüthi, would you do me the favor of accompanying me to my sitting room?”
“We’ll be in the blue salon,” said Vallotton.
Agnes walked beside the marquise, close at first, in case the woman needed help, then at a more comfortable distance, realizing that the escort was for conversation and not assistance.
The marquise asked a polite question about Agnes’s recovery, then dismissed the subject. “You have returned to your calling. Julien mentioned that you are investigating Guy Chavanon’s death. An irregular death, I take it?”
“Possibly.” Bardy’s phone message replayed in her head: Monsieur Mercier has called to … um … There had been a long pause and she’d held her breath, hoping she hadn’t made a series of decisions that would end her time with Bardy’s team. To complain about your inquiries. The second pause had been so long she had known it was bad news. Then Bardy had cleared his throat. Looks like you’re back at work.
Looking at the marquise, Agnes amended her answer: “Likely an unnatural death.”
“Is one of the family responsible? Isn’t that who you usually suspect?”
“There is a chance Chavanon wasn’t the intended victim. Two students at the school where he died had the same allergy. One of them has awkward family connections.”
“Aren’t most family connections awkward? It’s merely a matter of degrees.”
“Most people hesitate to implicate the family.”
“As if pretending is kinder,” said the marquise. “The dilemma of the ages. A solution to one problem is the beginning of another.”
They reached a broad stair, and the marquise gathered her long skirt in one hand. “You have an interesting profession, Inspector, examining the darkest emotions of humanity. Death is the ultimate problem. The ultimate test of who we are. When I was a girl, I wanted to be an archaeologist, which is a form of fascination with death. Perhaps if I was young today, I would want to follow in your footsteps. Association with death makes one feel alive.”
Electric lights beckoned from the top of the stairs. Agnes remembered the first time she had climbed these stairs to meet the marquise. She had been nervous. Justifiably nervous, she thought.
“I have lived a full life and seen many things,” said the marquise. “There has been great joy and infinite despair. We remember the highs and lows, don’t we? During your career, you will likely come across all of the seven deadly sins. A range beyond what I have witnessed.”
“Certainly the full spectrum of life.”
With each step, the marquise’s necklace reflected constellations of light across the stairs and walls. “Targets of greed and envy.” The marquise touched her jewels. “Pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, sloth. I have forgotten the seventh sin.”
“Wrath, I believe,” said Agnes.
They reached the top of the stairs and turned into the marquise’s sitting room. Fires blazed on both hearths and several lamps were illuminated. The marquise settled on a chair in the center of the room and indicated that Agnes should join her on its twin. Agnes remembered these chairs. The frames were solid silver and they glinted in the warm low light.
“Which of the deadly sins do you think will be at the root of Monsieur Chavanon’s death?” the marquise asked.
“It’s too early to say. Gluttony and sloth seem unlikely, though.”
A servant entered with a tray of liqueurs. The marquise took a small sherry and Agnes joined her. They both took a sip. Agnes felt sinfully civilized. She anticipated Sybille’s questions about the evening, knowing the answers would live up to expectation.
“If gluttony and sloth are unlikely, you are left with lust, pride, greed, envy, and wrath.” The marquise laced the fingers of one hand through the heavy cords of her necklace. “Those may be the deadly sins, but I think there are other reasons to kill.”
“I’m sure there are.”
“Honor should be on your list, Inspector. It’s worth killing for.”
“Can’t honor be linked to pride?”
“You think pride and honor are intertwined?” The marquise closed her eyes briefly, and Agnes remembered how the woman’s husband had died. The Marquis de Tornay was a French war hero. He had died for honor. Agnes watched the muscles of the marquise’s face shift and wondered, or was it pride that killed him?
“Pride is a strong emotion,” Agnes said. “But I agree with you that pride and honor are not the same.” She took another sip of sherry. “I think honor isn’t on the list because it’s not a sin, even if it moves people to kill.”
“A police inspector who doesn’t believe killing is a sin?”
“I don’t believe self-defense is a sin, so, no, not always.”
The darkness of the room lent an exceptional quality to the atmosphere. It was the atmosphere of shared confidences and of the ability to think deeply without the influence of modern impatience. Agnes felt her mind wander through the possibilities: poison in food or drink, through contact, by injection. Poison administered to the wrong person. Not an accident, though.
“Inspector, has your pride recovered?”
“My pride? I don’t know what you mean.”
“It was your burden the last time you were here. I feel you are lighter now.”
“I was grieving. My husband had died only a few months before. I suppose I am lighter now that more time has passed.”
“What was at the root of your grief?”
Agnes sat her glass down too hard, sloshing the liquid. “How my sons and I missed George.”
The marquise fingered her necklace, and Agnes had the odd sense that the woman drew some special power or awareness from her jewels.
“Emotions are complicated when someone dies suddenly,” said the marquise. “All these decades later, anger is what I remember most in the days following my husband’s death. Anger at what I had been forced to do. Anger at him for endangering us all. Anger at a world at war. When I fired that shot, I told myself it was to protect others, myself included. Later, I realized I also fired in anger. Passionate anger.”
Tears stung Agnes’s eyes. She hadn’t longed for George during those days at Château Vallotton. Her grief was not centered on missing him. She was angry at him. She was a
ngry at the lies she still told on his behalf. The lies she maintained to protect his parents. And why? Was it really to protect her sons until they were old enough to understand their father’s decision? Or was it pride? Her own pride, and not his.
The marquise took a sip of sherry and set her empty glass on a side table. “I was a very young woman when my husband died—much younger than you are now—and I wore my pride like a cloak.” She looked at Agnes pointedly. “It hardened until I could barely remove it.”
“Your husband was a hero, and he died during a war. My situation is entirely different. My husband was depressed. It is too common a problem, and he took his own life.”
The marquise nodded. “Pride.”
Agnes wasn’t certain if the marquise was referring to her or to George.
Her phone buzzed through the pocket of her suit coat. She slipped her hand in to silence it, but the marquise waved her off. “You are responsible for your children; please check your phone. I live enough in the modern world to accept this.”
Agnes stood and pulled the phone out before the call disconnected. The number wasn’t one of her sons’. It was Inspector Boschung from the Rossemaison gendarmerie.
“We’ve got a bloody shed here,” he announced without preamble, adding, as if she’d already objected, “Do you want to come or not?”
“To Rossemaison?”
Julien Vallotton entered the room, mobile phone in hand.
“The Institute,” Boschung continued impatiently. “Whole inside’s coated in blood. Are you coming or not?”
“Yes, I’ll be there shortly. Thank you for calling me.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank him.”
She looked at Vallotton, who nodded. Clearly the him.
Fifteen
The only sound as they crossed the lawn was the slight brush of leather soles on grass. The moon was barely visible through the clouds, and only the occasional flash of light indicated their destination. Agnes relied on the light from Julien Vallotton’s mobile phone to find her footing. Vallotton was intent upon his task and she stifled a smile, thankful she’d not dressed for dinner. He managed to look at ease despite his evening clothes. She would have felt ridiculous.
A Well-Timed Murder Page 11