“It’s not my fault Boschung called me first,” Vallotton said, picking up the conversation where they’d left off.
Agnes nearly laughed at the irritation in his voice. They’d already had this near argument during the drive from the château to the Institute. Vallotton had insisted on driving, saying that she’d had three glasses of champagne to his one, and she’d not had a counterpoint to that argument. Plus, she hadn’t wanted to admit that her leg could only take so much walking and driving two days in a row. Better to rest while he drove, and his car was faster and more comfortable.
She stumbled. They had reached the end of the smooth lawn behind the Institute; broken ground indicated the start of the surrounding fields.
Vallotton gestured with his light. “The shed is behind that hedge.”
Agnes located a heavy stone embedded in the ground and scraped the worst of the mud from her shoes. She heard male voices.
“Why are you on the board of directors here?” she asked, delaying. Pain snapped up and down her thigh like the crackle of lightning. She expected it to pass as quickly. “Didn’t you go to school at Le Rosey in Rolle?”
“My family owns the land that the Institute sits on—”
She resisted saying, Of course.
“—and my great-grandfather set the place up for his old tutor. A member of the family always sits on the board of directors.”
Agnes tightened the belt of her coat, motioning him forward. There was a gap between two sections of hedge, and Vallotton trained his light on the opening. She looked over her shoulder toward the chalet. A few lights were on and it looked like a constellation in a dark universe.
Bloody shed, Boschung had said on the telephone. She had shivered with excitement. After all, she was part of a Violent Crimes team, and not just any team, but Bardy’s team! Her shoe went sideways into a hole and she sighed. Dinner at Château Vallotton had been a perfect evening; it should have ended there.
“First you bring me to look into Chavanon’s death, and now this,” she said in a low voice. “You won’t be welcome at the school much longer.”
“The properties on both sides of the Institute belong to us. We lease them out for pasture, and I like to know what’s happening if there’s trouble. Villages love gossip and I don’t like things to fester.”
Agnes almost snapped that it wasn’t up to him to decide what festered or didn’t fester, but she stopped herself. It might be up to him. If the Vallottons owned the land that the Institute sat on, as well as farms to both sides, they might also own a good part of the neighboring village. She refused to ask him if they did, wondering if there was a part of Switzerland that Julien Vallotton didn’t call his own.
“I talked to Bardy while you were getting the car,” she said. “He thinks I’m a magnet for trouble.” They’d agreed that she would tread carefully with Boschung. Bardy liked to stay on good terms with their law enforcement colleagues. Civilians—such as Mercier—Bardy didn’t care as much about.
She ducked through the gap.
Despite the bright handheld lights and the small cluster of men surrounding it, the shed was as unpretentious as it sounded. Constructed from heavy timber, it was three meters by five, windowless, and topped with a traditional slate roof. An older man in a police jacket, who she presumed was Jacques Boschung, stood alongside Bernard Fontenay and another man she didn’t recognize. Two men in police jackets with reflective striping were taking photographs of the interior of the shed. The dark outline of a large structure marked the far side of the field. In the distance were scattered lights.
“Bad business,” said Boschung, after introducing himself. “We’re a quiet place and now this.” He was of medium height, stocky, and wore his hair cut short in a military style. His eyes were crinkled at the edges from years of squinting into the sun. He was older than he sounded on the telephone, and Agnes judged his age at nearly sixty.
She walked to the open door, and the local officers stepped aside. The faint, unmistakable metallic odor of blood wafted out. She directed her phone light around the interior. The source of the smell was evident. Near-black, rust-colored liquid had pooled on a large block of wood and formed sticky patches on the nearby ground. Five great sprays of dark reddish brown marked the far wall. They were violent. Repetitive and aggressive. She stepped back, slightly shaken, not sure what she had expected. She took a few steady breaths and focused. Boschung hadn’t exaggerated. The interior of the shed was covered in blood.
“Hamel”—Boschung motioned to the man standing beside Fontenay—“found it and called me in right away.”
“Monsieur Hamel is our handyman and groundskeeper,” said Fontenay, good manners helping him overcome his distress. “This will bring the police. They’ll be everywhere. They’ll want to see everything.”
Agnes resisted reminding him that she and Boschung were the police. The man was clearly unnerved. Even in the darkness he looked strained.
By contrast, Monsieur Hamel exuded quiet authority. He wore a traditional dark blue wool jacket with capped sleeves. The throat of his shirt was closed with a string tie clasped with edelweiss. The flower was also embroidered on the lapels of his jacket. He was the personification of a kinder, gentler era. Agnes shifted her phone light slightly so she could better see his face. His features were immobile.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
His account was succinct. He’d been on a routine inspection of the property and had only to take a whiff before he’d known something was wrong in the shed. Agnes nodded sympathetically.
It started to drizzle and she pulled a brimmed wool hat from her handbag and shoved it over her head. The rain brought out farm smells. Cow dung, earth, the scent of smoke. She glanced around, surprised no lights were on in neighboring farms. In Switzerland, there were always near neighbors. To the south, tiny pinpricks of light dotted the Prévôté Valley as far as the eye could see. To the north was complete darkness where the hills rose.
“You call this building a shed, but it must have a use,” she said. The men had moved closer to the structure to shelter under the eaves. “Someone accesses it.”
“Not really. Not anymore,” said Hamel. “Used to be storage for the farm, but the equipment’s all up at the big barn now.”
“Is that the dark shape across the field? Why are there no lights?”
“That’s the house and barn that belongs to the farm, but no one’s living there. The family that works this field lives another farm over. It’s theirs entirely and they lease the land here for the extra grazing.”
Agnes took another look in all directions. One of the officers pulled Boschung aside for a question. Slightly up the hill she saw a light, or lights, bobbing. “What’s that?” she asked Fontenay. “I don’t remember a road in that direction. Does someone live in the forest?”
“No, it’s likely someone crossing the edge of the field to visit a neighbor.”
“Boschung may want to question them.”
“They’ve not been out walking for an hour. I wouldn’t worry them.”
Agnes wondered if Fontenay was in shock. He looked stricken, yet sounded uninterested in answers. She gestured, nodding her head slightly toward the headmaster. Vallotton understood.
“We’ll return to the Institute,” he said, including Hamel in his suggestion. “Unless you need us?”
“Go ahead,” Agnes said, adding in a low murmur as he passed, “Have Fontenay see the school nurse.”
With the group thinned to only the professionals, Agnes stepped again into the open doorway. One of Boschung’s men handed her a strong flashlight, and she moved the beam around the space. The ground inside the shed was hard-packed earth. The walls were rough timber, grayed with age. Bits of debris had accumulated in the corners, and a pile of old lumber leaned up against one wall. There was no sign of human habitation or use. Except for the blood, and that wasn’t accidental.
She studied the center of the room, crouching for a better angle. A
great deal of what she presumed was blood was on the stump and surrounding floor, and the pooled areas looked sticky. Recently, the nights had been cold, but not freezing. However, blood dried quickly, unless there was a lot of it. This wasn’t several days old. Yesterday, maybe? In the right conditions, two days at the most. Fake currency she could spot at a glance, but she didn’t have enough experience with blood to date it more precisely.
No footprints were visible on the hard-packed earth. She moved the light back and forth to catch nuances of what she was seeing, stopping to study the back wall. The streaks of maroon-black fanned out as they neared the low ceiling. The part of her brain that had earlier screamed disaster was calmer now. More details were revealed with a stronger light.
“Are those feathers?” she asked the nearest officer.
“Yes, madame, I mean, Inspector. Probably part of a ritual.”
Agnes wished people wouldn’t watch so much television. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
“No, Inspector, we’re a calm community. Haven’t had an unnatural death in at least twenty years.”
She didn’t tell him that she had only come to Rossemaison because of a suspected homicide.
The spray on the back wall was smudged in places, and squinting, she wondered if a hand had been dragged across it. With no single palm or fingerprint visible, the size of the hand was difficult to judge. Something was off about the entire scene. It felt staged. Of course a ritual would look staged, that was the point of it.
She knelt and aimed the beam along the ground. “You still don’t have an unnatural death here, unless you forgot to mention a body.”
“All this blood, what else could it be?” the officer said.
“Anyone reported missing recently?”
“No, we’re all accounted for in the village.”
Boschung joined them. “We can give way, your team can take over.”
“I think you’ve done an admirable job,” said Agnes.
“Aren’t you the specialists?” said Boschung.
“Rituals,” the other officer repeated, nodding sagely.
“I think your officers will conduct a thorough investigation and go from there,” said Agnes.
“We’ve never had doings like this, not in all my years,” Boschung replied.
Agnes was about to express disbelief when there was a noise nearby. A familiar man’s voice called out and a light shone through the hedge. She stifled a smile when a head poked through. She’d told André Petit that he didn’t need to come, although she knew that he would. He was eager to return to work, and to prove himself. Blood in an abandoned village shed was too much for him to ignore. He was proud to be joining Violent Crimes. She motioned him forward.
“Officer Petit will lend you every assistance,” she said to Boschung. Before he could argue, she spoke briefly to Petit, then left her beaming associate asking a dozen questions in rapid succession.
It was still drizzling when she neared the chalet. The groundskeeper was waiting on the back patio, and Agnes joined him under the shelter of the roof.
“Boschung grew up next farm over,” Hamel said. “Always hated the farm life. It’s good that he found a job in town. He’ll take care of us.”
“Did he attend school here?” Her coat dripped water in a puddle and she carefully removed her hat. Her short hair was damp and flattened against her head.
Hamel laughed. “Where would he get the money for this place?”
Point well taken, she thought. “You’ve been at the Institute a long time?”
“Started when I was a boy, did everything by hand back then, the grass cutting, the trimming. There were more of us. All from the village. When the head gardener retired, I replaced him. Bit young for it, but I proved myself.” Hamel smiled at the memory.
“You’re in charge of everything on the property? Gardens and buildings?”
“Not Monsieur Navarro’s plot of land. I stay clear of that poison nonsense. Otherwise, yes. That’s why I do my route. Walk the perimeter, check all the buildings with an eye toward preventive maintenance.”
Agnes glanced around. “But the shed isn’t on school property? Isn’t the school boundary the rectangle of structures? The lawns and terraces are all within that.”
Hamel snorted. “I walk the larger perimeter since the Vallottons own farms on each side. Won’t do to let things go by the wayside. My grandfather and my father worked for their family, and we’ve kept up the tradition. Take care of them, and they’ll take care of you. Old Monsieur Vallotton paid to send my middle boy to school for music. I’d never heard of such a thing, but he had a voice like an angel. Lives in Vienna now, sings with the opera, been all over the world.”
“However, you work directly for the Fontenays?”
Hamel swung around to face Agnes full on. “Monsieur Fontenay’s full of grand ideas, a lot of talk about education and the philosophy behind everything. Nonsense really, when what you’re supposed to do is tell kids how to listen and learn. How to behave. He’s not got her spine. She likes things just so. Strict. She’s not a coddler, that’s for sure.”
Hamel narrowed his eyes. “You arrived with Monsieur Vallotton.” She nodded and Hamel rocked back on his heels. He wagged his chin toward the door. “I’ve seen it all, hundreds of boys passing through here over the years. The things they’ll get up to would scare most parents; course that’s why they’re sent here. My wife calls it the ‘patina of security.’”
Agnes couldn’t disagree. On the other hand, these boys came from all over the world. They weren’t a typical cross section of a village or even a city. She said as much to Hamel.
He frowned. “Don’t think the ones from bad places bring the trouble. Raised three boys and a girl myself, and in my experience, even the good ones are a handful when they’re passing through the stages of growing up. So many together in a big bunch takes the right kind of person to keep an eye on everyone. On everything.”
“You don’t think the Fontenays are the right kind?”
“It’s a good place to work.” Hamel seemed to regret saying as much as he had. He wiped his forehead.
“Is there anything else that’s troubled you lately?”
He drew air in between his teeth. “You’re a smart one. Nothing like today. Nothing to hang your hat on, or I would have told them before. It’s hard to know sometimes what’s an accident or natural and what’s malicious. There’ve been things.”
Agnes pulled out her notebook.
He eyed it. “It’s only been these last weeks, since that big storm. Had a window—no, two windowpanes out. Not broken, but laying out of their putty like it dried up overnight. And I’ve seen some lights on at odd times.”
“Lights?”
“People walking where they shouldn’t be.”
She remembered the ones she’d seen earlier. The ones that hadn’t troubled Fontenay. “People walking on the property? Trespassing?”
“Not quite trespassing. Walking on the edge of the fields, near the forest where they shouldn’t be. There are wild boars there and it’s dangerous. No reason for someone to stir up trouble that way. That’s why I was doing my rounds so late this time. Hoping to catch them at it. Guess the joke’s on me.”
“Do you live here?” According to Madame Fontenay, two teachers were always on duty at night, in addition to the headmaster and mistress. Everyone else lived away from the campus.
“They don’t call it ‘here.’ I’m up the hill a bit. We lease from the Vallottons. My family’s always done since my grandfather built the house. He helped build the chalet, slept up the hill to oversee construction.”
“You have a good view of the property?”
Hamel grinned. “Good enough to see lights.”
This didn’t sound like much to Agnes, but she dutifully made notes. “Anything else?”
“There was that arrow in the wall.”
Sixteen
An awkward silence spread through the headmaste
r’s office. Despite a fire blazing on the hearth, the room felt cold. Only a few lamps were on, and beyond their glow the room was a mass of shadow and darkness. The Fontenays sat on opposite ends of a long sofa, emanating fear and anger in alternating currents. Agnes was perched on the front edge of a cushioned armchair, wishing she had dry shoes to change into. She eased Bernard Fontenay’s jacket nearer the armrest, then leaned back.
“If this gets out … When this gets out…” Bernard choked back a gulp of brandy, slamming the empty glass on the table.
“Is there trouble between the Institute and the village that might play out this way?” Agnes asked.
“With bloodshed?” Bernard was aghast.
“And the arrow shot into the chalet by the boys’ rooms. Which no one mentioned to me until tonight.”
“You need to talk to Koulsy Haroun and see if he knows anything,” said Helene Fontenay. Her face was sliced in half by a dark shadow, reinforcing the chill in her voice.
“You think he’s responsible?”
“There are no complaints about us in the village,” Bernard interrupted.
“There must be the usual grumblings,” said Agnes, eyeing Helene. She had leaned farther into the shadows, and Agnes wished she could see the woman’s face. Monsieur Fontenay’s was a mask of nerves and anguish, as was his voice. Madame Fontenay was angry, but her reaction was controlled. A white-hot stillness enveloped her.
“We’re part of the village, but not precisely part of village life,” Bernard said. “The boys walk over and buy treats and spend money in the shops and probably cause minor trouble.”
“Madame Fontenay, is this why you mentioned Koulsy? Has he caused trouble there?”
Bernard answered, “No, Koulsy isn’t a troublemaker.”
“But someone else is?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“We’ve not had any complaints,” said Helene.
“Do you go into the village often?”
A Well-Timed Murder Page 12