Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery

by Tracee de Hahn

  Agnes wished she had asked the doctor to attend to Estanguet. “He saw the body. I’m sure he’ll feel better in the morning. It is the shock and the cold. We were outside too long.”

  “Death is a shock, and the death of a young person is a double tragedy.” The marquise searched Agnes’s face. “Do you have children, Inspector Lüthi?”

  “Three boys.”

  “To have a child die would be a terrible thing. What parent would be satisfied with an explanation? What sibling would understand? My brother was a very old man when he left us, a century of living. But with a child there would be no talk of having lived a full life. You want a child to live forever, or at least to die after you, so the illusion of living forever is complete.”

  Agnes understood. What if one of her sons had died instead of George? Could she have survived that horror? Even for the other boys? Or would she have been only two-thirds of a person forever? This was the first time she’d been away from home in the evening since George’s death and a thousand worries crowded her head. Were the boys safe? How could she know without seeing them herself? How could she have returned to work knowing there would be nights like this? Sybille was right: she should be with them.

  “The bond between a parent and child,” the marquise continued. “Permanent, yet an intangible connection. I wonder, would you recognize your boys if you hadn’t seen them since they were young? Two or three years old maybe, not fully formed. Would you know them after years? Decades even? Is the bond that strong?”

  Agnes forced her mind to send the message that her boys were safe and well and that she shouldn’t worry. Their grandparents loved them and would care for them. “Yes,” she managed, “because I would recognize myself or my husband in their faces.”

  “I had not thought of that. Of course recognizing a family characteristic would make it simpler. A physical bond.” The marquise turned away from her. “Mademoiselle Cowell’s parents will be devastated. Their loss will be hard.”

  The dismissal was firm and Agnes said good night and clicked her flashlight on again. The Great Dane appeared from the shadows, and she was pleased. Winston was a comfort, not merely his size but his calmness. This was his territory and he had no fear. She laughed out loud; fatigue was making her fanciful.

  At the top of yet another long flight of winding stairs, she found Petit dozing in a hard-backed chair in the hallway. She swept her flashlight down the wall of the corridor and counted the doors, looking for the eighth. Knowing that the other rooms were quite possibly occupied, she counted the doors twice. Winston’s nails clicked as he turned to leave. Finally she looked at Petit, wishing he had disappeared while her back was turned.

  “We’ve got her tucked away nice and tidy,” he said.

  Agnes motioned for him to continue, too tired to ask questions, yet knowing she needed to let him report so they could both go to bed.

  “In a kind of old ice house. Doctor Blanchard wants her kept cold and decided it would suit. And we’ve walked the perimeter and finished blocking off all the rooms the victim used. I think Monsieur Bardy would be pleased.”

  “Felicity Cowell,” Agnes said automatically. “Not the victim. She had a name. She is a person.”

  “Absolutely, Mademoiselle Cowell.” Petit took a step forward, wincing. He ducked to bring his face near hers. “I took pictures of everything. On my camera phone, but the resolution is good.”

  “You’re in pain, what happened?”

  “Slipped coming down the hill, from the bruise on my leg I guess that my radio fell off and I landed on it. Couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face and didn’t know it at the time. Radio’s gone for good, I think.” He edged closer to her. “You won’t mention this to Bardy?”

  “He won’t care about your radio. It’s more important that we sleep and be fresh for tomorrow. In daylight we’ll look at the crime scene again.”

  “Not another word. I’m Officer Petit reporting to sleep duty as of now.” He started to leave. “I never thought in all my life that I’d get a chance to stay here. Most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  Agnes crossed the threshold of her assigned bedroom, wondering how it was that her eyes were still open and her brain functioning. An oil lamp was burning, giving off just enough light for her to see the general outline of the space even before she ran her flashlight beam around. The wallpaper pattern was of vines laced with yellow flowers and the heavy curtains and upholstery, even the spread on the bed, matched it. The double bed was topped by a high dome of material stretched over a wood frame, and the effect caused Agnes to smile despite her weariness. No wonder Petit was looking forward to his night here.

  She slipped off her ruined shoes and saw an old-fashioned linen nightgown folded on her pillow. The sight of it made her uncomfortable. The Vallottons and their servants saw to everything; they would have no problem creating a story out of whole cloth for the police if they wanted. Standing beside the bed, silently debating the ethics of wearing a nightgown possibly provided by the killer, she was startled when a light rap on her door was followed by Carnet’s soft “Vous êtes là?”

  Shaking her head to wake herself, she plucked her notebook from her handbag and slipped on her damp shoes before stepping into the wide corridor. “Everyone is settled for the night,” Carnet said when she emerged. “I wanted to talk to you about a few things.”

  “Of course, I was just going over my notes.” There was a small table a few feet away, and she pulled a chair over. Her flashlight provided enough light to read by, and Carnet picked up another chair and joined her. He rubbed his temple as if countering a headache.

  “I had better luck getting straight stories out of the Arsov household,” Agnes said. “I made a mistake and should have spoken to the Vallottons individually. Instead they were vague and probably not entirely truthful. Someone has to have known her better than they admit.”

  “Tomorrow will be time enough.” Carnet rubbed his forehead again.

  “To have their stories straight.”

  “Agnes, I doubt this is the work of the household as a group. They’re not conspiring against us as we sleep. They’re anxious and worried. No matter how carefully someone constructs a story there will be holes. Tomorrow will do.”

  “Did you talk to the rest of the household? The ones who aren’t family?”

  “Each and every one of them.”

  “There aren’t as many as I’d think in a place this large. Not as many as next door.”

  Carnet nodded. “You interviewed the marquise, the Vallotton brothers, and Marie-Chantal Vallotton?”

  “And the marquise’s godson, Ralph Mulholland. As Petit said, Julien Vallotton technically owns the property since his father died two years ago, but he lives mostly in London. His brother lives here with his wife. Mulholland is visiting, although I get the idea that it is an extended visit with no end in sight. He’s British, although he doesn’t admit to knowing Felicity Cowell before.”

  Carnet nodded. “I spoke with the housekeeper, Madame Puguet. There’s only a couple of maids here now. The others, including a nanny for the little girl, were out, stranded by the storm. The cook is here. And another man—an American college student—called Nick Graves is doing research in the library. He’s been here for a few weeks. Part of a fellowship from his university sponsored by the Vallottons. Across the lot of them a great deal of trying to remember where they were. Conflicting stories. Nothing of real importance. Yet.”

  “Are you sure we can discount Julien Vallotton?”

  “Bardy said as much when he called me. It was the first thing he did when he heard from the gendarmerie. Called Cointrin’s ground security and checked the time Vallotton’s flight arrived. They noted when his car left the tarmac.”

  “How’d he know it was a crime?”

  “Habit of experience. Imagine the worst. Anyway, he said it was impossible for Julien Vallotton to be involved with the woman’s death. Those were literally Bardy’s last wo
rds to me before the phone cut out. The ice that covered her came in the first wave of the storm before Vallotton arrived.”

  Agnes ran her eyes down the list of notes she had taken earlier. “Arsov has a large staff; all accounted for.” She fidgeted with her waistband. “We have nothing.”

  “Tomorrow we start again. No one is leaving. And in daylight people are more cooperative.”

  “A killer is out there.” Agnes glanced at Carnet. “Granted, probably not wandering the countryside killing randomly, and the property is not just private, it is hard to reach. Is it possible to go along the shore past the neighbor’s and not have to climb up the hill? Maybe it was someone from the outside, someone on drugs, or simply crazy.” She glanced at Carnet and saw that he found that scenario as unlikely as she did. “If not, at least we can rule it out.”

  “Agnes—”

  “We need to know more about the victim, then we can see the connection to this place or the others, or if one even exists. Why would someone want to kill her? And why kill her here?”

  “Jealousy, hate, greed, fear,” said Carnet. “We have our choice of reasons.”

  “The Vallottons don’t seem like killers.”

  “Few people do. Probably any one of us can kill if the reason is strong enough. Crimes of passion. Revenge.”

  “What she was wearing bothers me. My impression is that Felicity Cowell dressed carefully. Too carefully, the marquise seemed to think. Probably wanted to present herself well. She was a young professional.” Agnes flipped through the pages of her notebook. “You remember that laundering scheme two years ago? How the auction types were all dressed to the nines, reeking money to impress their clients? I think Felicity Cowell was the same. The marquise likely doesn’t have a concept of needing to impress since she had that mastered at birth. But dressing well usually doesn’t mean overdressing. It means being absolutely appropriate. Felicity Cowell was wearing an evening gown in the middle of the afternoon, with a man’s boots and coat. Forget that she was outside in that garb, why was she wearing it in the first place in the middle of a workday? She would have looked absurd. If the coat is supposed to have been taken from the armoire in the small hall by the door, well, I checked and there are other coats there. More-appropriate coats. Women’s coats. A fur even. Why did she pick that one?”

  Carnet sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. They sat in silence. Agnes ran her pen down her notes, wondering where to begin in the morning.

  “Agnes, we need to talk about George.” Her head snapped up, eyes wide in astonishment. “I know he’s on your mind and having me here, having us work together, doesn’t make it easier. You wanted a clean break and to return to work with different colleagues, a different office, and I thought it was a good idea. Anything to help you forget.”

  “What is there to talk about? He’s dead.” She felt tears rise easily to the surface. She didn’t want to talk about her husband. He was already too present in her mind tonight and her family life had always been separate from work. That was all that allowed her to continue in the aftermath of tragedy.

  “He was a good man, and he loved his sons. Remember that. And he was so proud of you.”

  “Don’t say things to make me feel better. I won’t have it.”

  “He was proud of you.”

  “You didn’t even know George.” Her voice quavered. She remembered Carnet arriving at the scene seconds after her: taking charge, making sure she was away before she learned more of the horrific details of the drop from the bridge onto the road; before hysteria could settle in.

  “You’ve forgotten that I met George at Bienne just before the match. I came to see you shoot and you took a first.”

  She had forgotten, but now remembered seeing the two men talking. She’d been thrilled to show off in front of her boss; certain her husband was proud. Vigorously she rubbed a tear off her cheek.

  There were footsteps down the hall. Agnes stood and turned her flashlight toward the noise. A match flared and a candle illuminated. In the arc of light they saw a young woman cup her hand around the flame. Agnes looked at Carnet who mouthed, “One of the maids, Marie-José.” The woman approached and asked if Agnes was the inspector in charge. With a brief glance at Carnet, Agnes said yes, she was.

  “May I speak with you privately? No disrespect to monsieur.”

  “Was there something else?” Agnes asked Carnet. He shook his head no and she said good night before leading Marie-José into her room.

  In the corridor the young woman had appeared self-assured, but once inside the bedroom she was nervous and Agnes gave her a moment to collect herself. Thin and pretty in a quiet way, Marie-José had brown hair and eyes and good teeth. She rounded out her appearance with jeans and a heavy sweater. Pouring her guest a glass of water from a carafe, Agnes wondered if the girl wore a uniform when on duty. Marie-José took a few sips before setting the glass on the small table near the bed. She opened her mouth a few times as if to speak, but didn’t make a sound.

  Agnes waited through a few tries, then took pity on the woman. “Is there something you didn’t want to share earlier?”

  “I was afraid of being misunderstood.”

  Agnes recollected that according to Carnet, Marie-José had contributed no more than basic facts about herself and a lack of knowledge about anyone’s movements during the hours in question. “You’ve remembered something?”

  “Yes, that’s it.” Marie-José looked so relieved Agnes wanted to scold her. “I remembered that I didn’t hear Monsieur Graves when I was cleaning the library. That’s harder than remembering something you did hear, isn’t it?” She paused. “He was in the library when I started dusting but he wasn’t there the entire afternoon. I’m sure of it.”

  “And he said he was?”

  “Yes. And it may have been long enough to. Well, you know. Go outside.”

  After they had covered the timing of Nick Graves’s coming and going as clearly as Marie-José could remember, Agnes had another question. “Did you notice him interested in Felicity Cowell?”

  “We all were.” Marie-José stopped herself. “Not in the way that you mean, but she was interesting. And beautiful. Plus she was British. I loved to hear her talk. Not that she did much, and never to me.” She laughed awkwardly. “She was mysterious and beautiful.” She studied her fingernails as if inspecting a new manicure. “He was flustered around her. When I saw them together, I mean.”

  She stood. Agnes didn’t stop her and, after apologizing for her earlier reticence, Marie-José excused herself.

  Agnes locked her bedroom door, thinking about Nick Graves and wondering how many other lies were told during the evening. She changed into the borrowed nightgown, lowering the flame in the oil lamp near the bed. At least now she had a real lead. And a suspect.

  DAY TWO

  Six

  Agnes dressed at dawn, thankful daylight meant she could at least pretend to work. She had slept poorly, her dreams filled with images of George, a somber George whom she had married but hadn’t really known. Now, facing the morning with the same clothes and damp shoes, her mood worsened. She finished washing up and ran a hand through her flattened hair. After slipping a small bottle of hand lotion from George’s emergency kit into her pocket, she exited the bedroom and trudged through the dark corridors. Relieved to find the morning meal had been laid out as promised, she helped herself to a croissant and cup of coffee before starting on a self-guided tour. She wanted to work, needed to work.

  Last night she had made a sketch of the château, just enough to study the general layout. Now she was interested in what she might have missed the previous evening. Lacking electricity, the spaces were an uneven mix of dark and light. She felt a shiver of apprehension and wished the cell towers were repaired and that her phone worked.

  Too many rooms and too much silence. She traced the route from the outside door by the kitchen—glad to hear voices at work—to the victim’s workroom at the opposite side of the château, then
to the room called the fur vault, before backtracking to the door near the kitchen which led to the lawn, wondering if that was the way Felicity had exited. Standing on her tiptoes she peered through the small window set high in the heavy door. The storm had resumed for several hours in the night and no footprints could have survived the frozen mess of blowing ice. Obtaining evidence at the crime scene was unlikely before, and nearly impossible now.

  Her mind wandered down the halls and through various scenarios before locking on the obvious. They had no fixed points for the hours before Felicity reached the bench and was struck down. No one claimed to have seen or heard her and the sheer size of the estate lent the claims credibility. She could have been in her workroom—as expected and evidenced by a cold cup of tea—but why was she wearing an evening gown? Did she leave on her own or did someone lure her away? Was the cold tea left from the night before, meaning she hadn’t returned to her workroom the day of her death and they could eliminate that room from their inquiry?

  Agnes pondered the questions. Too many questions. Was the bench Felicity’s destination, or was she on her way somewhere else? Was she there by choice, chance, or design? With no answers, she studied her sketch of the château again. Remarkably, there were only two exterior exits or, perhaps more important, entrances. On the principal level, there were doors that opened onto the interior courtyard; however, from there everyone still had to pass under the heavy iron portcullis and through the main gate. The other outside access was this small door near the kitchen leading down through the foundation to the lawn. Two points of entry or exit.

  Agnes returned to the entrance hall and felt a weight press on her. There were dozens of ways to travel through the château unnoticed and the more she walked the more she felt the profundity of the silence. She worked her way up the various flights of stairs until she emerged to stand on the walkway at the top of the northeast wall. The morning was cold but clear and she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. Lighting one, she took a drag, edging closer to the parapet for shelter from the slight wind. The covered open walkway ran the circumference of the château’s ramparts and linked the turrets. The outer wall was crenellated, while the inner wall intersected with the roof overhead. Despite this, ice had driven under the roof to almost completely coat the walls and floor. Everywhere she looked—as far as the eye could see—ordinary forms were outlined in ice, creating a surreal landscape.