“Hope you aren’t contemplating jumping.”
The man’s voice startled her. Annoyance followed swiftly.
Julien Vallotton emerged from a narrow, low door. “I was going to leave these by your bedroom door, but one of the maids said you were already up here. She was impressed that you were at work so early; I think her way of criticizing the rest of us.” Vallotton held out a wool hat and a pair of fleece-lined winter boots. “She also said that she offered you boots last night and you refused.” He glanced at her thin damp shoes. “Understandable that you were uncertain about accepting help from the suspects—maybe the lining is poisoned—but I thought you might change your mind. Selfish really, I’m trying to keep out of prison for murder and don’t want to find you frozen in a lonely corner. A second victim.”
“Are you bird-watching?” Agnes nodded to the binoculars hanging from a leather strap around his neck. “I’d think all the birds outside today are frozen.”
He grinned. “I’m glad Bardy sent you.”
Agnes took the boots and after a moment’s hesitation eased her cold feet into them, jumping back in surprise. “They’re hot.”
“They shouldn’t be. Mine were only warm.” Vallotton reached for one and she stopped him, embarrassed. Of course they warmed their boots before putting them on. Who would put on cold boots when there were servants to prevent such things? Her toes were so chilled the heat felt like boiling water. She waved him off and tried not to sigh with pleasure as the temperature evened out. She added the thick hat, mashing her hair flat.
“I think you aren’t going to prison,” she said, remembering what Carnet had told her about the timing of Julien Vallotton’s arrival.
“Comforting. But someone is. Or should.” Vallotton raised his binoculars. “I wanted to see the damage. Of course, I could be checking to see that I hid all the evidence of my criminal behavior yesterday.” He lowered the lenses to look at the ground beneath them. “Yes, snowmobile tracks from the airport eradicated completely.”
Over his shoulder she saw a shadow in the distance. A man. Ralph Mulholland turned quickly and headed around the corner to the far tower. She studied his disappearing back, wondering if it was her overactive imagination that made him appear to scuttle. Perhaps he was simply cold and in a hurry to return inside.
Vallotton held his binoculars out. She shook her head, more interested in the activity directly below. Carnet and Petit had emerged from the château onto the lawn, Petit peeling off toward the drive in search of his missing radio, while Carnet started a grid search, setting out small wooden stakes near where they found the body.
Squinting to see in the glare of sun on ice, Agnes located the canvas walls used to shelter Felicity Cowell the night before. They had blown into a tangled heap against the trees before being encased in several inches of ice. Carnet’s efforts to find a weapon were likely in vain.
He called up to her, holding one hand to his ear with a questioning look. She shook her head: no cell service. For a few minutes she watched him slip and stumble as he went about his work. Just seeing the others had changed the morning. Normal human activity continued. She had had to remind herself of that every day for three months, and she wondered if it would ever end, this need to be prompted to engage with the world. Behind her, Vallotton cursed under his breath and she turned to see him slide against the wall. He was walking the length of the east wing and she followed, thankful for her new boots and hat.
Near the south turret they had a clear view of the entire lake. Remembering the predictions on the radio the evening before, she understood that this astonishing sight was what the meteorologists had expected. The wind had blown spray off the water and it had frozen along the shore in dramatic horizontal patterns, ice clinging to every surface: trees, handrails, benches. The façade of the château was coated in three inches of ice dappled by the force of the wind. Near the water’s edge, the summer pavilion was encased in ice so thick it looked like a solid form.
She lit another cigarette, this one to enjoy. Across the lake, the French Alps gleamed white. Agnes could practically hear tourists cooing excitedly with their noses pressed to the windows of cozy hotel breakfast rooms, trusting to their hosts to find a way to heat and light the chambers while they took vacation photographs to post later on social media. From this vantage point the aftermath of the storm looked both awe-inspiring and chaotic. In every direction, fallen trees covered the normally ordered landscape and the road leading up to the village was a tangle of overlapping branches that created a barrier five meters high. She was fortunate Estanguet had helped the others down when he did. A few more hours and it would have been impassible. Now the ice would have to thaw before anyone could manage the steep slope, and even then a sharp ax would be needed to hack a way through. In the other direction, beyond the ice-encrusted shoreline, the activity on Lac Léman was altered with the ferries stopped, leaving the cold water empty. It would take days, if not weeks, to restore even basic services.
She leaned against the ice-covered stone of the parapet and closed her eyes. Mentally she reviewed the names of the château’s inhabitants, wondering who was a killer. It was a shocking idea despite seeing the body: someone among them a killer. Suddenly she was exhausted in a way that not even a cigarette helped dispel.
“If I’m not going to prison, who is?” Vallotton was standing beside her, cool blue gaze studying her thoughtfully. He looked prepared to steady her with his hand.
“Slept badly,” she mumbled.
“I should think so. Forced to stay in the house where the crime happened. Probably not the usual routine.”
He was frowning at her cigarette and she didn’t want to tell him that she had never been part of this routine and didn’t know what was usual. “How well do you know the American staying here?” she asked. “Nick Graves.”
“The fellowship student? Not at all. I think he was cordoned off in the library last evening. I steered clear of all but my family.” He paused. “He’s the, what do you call it, prime suspect? My aunt will be thrilled. She’s convinced I did it. Coming from London, proximity to the dead woman. Probably she thinks I am most likely to slither out of an arrest—she can’t imagine you would imprison my father’s son.” He raised his binoculars again. “She’s a bit old-fashioned. I’m certain you would love nothing more than to put me in cuffs and have done with it.”
“Fortunately your plane arrived after Felicity Cowell died.”
They stood side by side for a moment watching the activity of her colleagues below, Agnes aware of Vallotton’s height and elegance compared with her own disheveled appearance.
“I merely wondered if you knew him.” Last night she was prepared to take Marie-José’s story at face value. In the strong light of day she would question all motives.
“Bardy and my father were lifelong friends. Fellow stamp collectors.” Vallotton turned to face her. “I’m glad he sent you. We must seem callous; certainly there were no tears last night. I’ve often wondered what an outsider would think of my family and never had the chance to ask.”
“I’m hardly the usual outsider.”
“What does usual mean? We never meet anyone new—truly new. My aunt has possibly not met anyone new since the last world war.”
“Impossible.” Agnes crushed the remains of her cigarette under her heel then self-consciously picked it up and tucked it in her pocket. She couldn’t tell if Vallotton was amused or contemptuous. Either way, much as she wanted not to like him, she did. “You were introduced to Ralph Mulholland last night.”
“I’ve met him before, years ago. Anyway, he is my aunt’s godson, not really someone new, is he? She’s known him his whole life, he is like family to her. I mean someone new. Someone not tied to us in a way that we can pigeonhole immediately. We know exactly how far to trust someone, what to say and not say. Even the maids are the daughters of old maids. Plus we probably own the houses they grew up in.”
“You don’t know the American,
that means he’s new.”
“Nick Graves? I haven’t met him, and haven’t any plans to.” Agnes frowned and Vallotton shrugged. “The people I know are troublesome enough. The last thing I need to do is add others, full of unknown quantities and expectations, to the list.”
“Not very trusting, are you?”
“Based on your time here, should I be?”
She leaned nearer the edge of the parapet to check Carnet’s progress. For a moment she had a sense of vertigo. She felt the pull of the ground. The sense of inevitability. This was how it felt in that final second before George fell. Vallotton gripped her arm and pulled her back.
“You’re ill.”
“No.” Embarrassed, she couldn’t explain. She leaned near the edge again, this time prepared for the heady sense of tipping. She pointed down the ice-coated wall. “Are we above the door from the back hall, the one near the kitchen?”
Vallotton motioned for her to follow him. He stopped three-quarters of the way around the east turret and pointed down. Agnes gripped the wall and leaned over. Sighting the door, she studied the path Felicity might have walked from door to bench.
“Why was she sitting there?” She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t spoken out loud.
“Normally the lawn is appealing, and there’s a promenade along the lake.” When she didn’t comment, Vallotton laughed, blue eyes flashing. “You’re going to need me if you want the rest of my family, and the servants for that matter, to cooperate. They’ll answer your questions, but you need more. I’m not very trusting and it’s a family characteristic. But I trust you. I trust Bardy and he sent you.”
Agnes admitted that what Vallotton said was at least partially true. This was an unusual situation and she might need someone from the family to smooth things over. Bardy’s claim that there was no possibility Julien Vallotton was involved in the crime had better be right. She was about to stake her reputation on it.
“The appealing view is what I mean,” she said. “Who would sit on a hard bench fifty meters from the shore, surrounded by a clump of trees, when they could sit in a pavilion near the shore under a beautiful roof?” Although the pavilion was encased with ice, the outline of the octagonal structure was clear.
“You aren’t seeing the grove at its best,” Vallotton said. “Although I think its best is now a thing of the past. Before the storm it was a pleasant place. Arsov is wheeled out there most days. Marie-Chantal likes to set up an easel in the shade. When you live on a lake it can lose its appeal.”
Agnes glanced toward Carnet again. Beyond him was Petit. She angled her head and farther away saw a much smaller figure staring up the frozen hill. Mulholland again. Although it was impossible to be certain at a distance. The form appeared to be a man’s, but it could be a tall woman well bundled against the cold with a heavy coat, hat, and scarf. She pictured Felicity Cowell’s clothing. The thin evening dress and a man’s coat. An unlikely combination in an unlikely place.
There had been unlikely combinations in financial crimes. They were the prompt, the literal thing that drew attention and started an investigation. Investigations that often led to ugliness far beyond stolen wealth to human trafficking, drugs, lives destroyed. Violent crimes appeared to be the opposite. The thing that drew attention was seemingly the worst on offer—the taking of a human life. Instinctively Agnes knew it wasn’t the worst on offer and that ultimately they would find the dark and spoiled thing that led to Felicity Cowell’s death. That was what she was looking for. The root of evil. Vladimir Arsov understood. He also knew that evil knew how to hide.
“Last night your aunt said that Monsieur Mulholland lives here, but you don’t know him well?”
“He’s visited over the years but I was always away myself. And I’ve lived mostly in London for some time. I think Mulholland’s on an extended visit now. It’s kind of him, really. Antoinette is very much alone since my father died. Only our housekeeper, cook, chauffeur, and a few maids live here. Antoinette doesn’t count the students who rotate through from university, although I suppose they are introduced to her upon arrival. And of course Mimi lives here with her nanny.” He lifted a hand to shield his eyes against the glare. “I hope the poor woman wasn’t trapped on a road when the storm hit. I’m certain my chauffeur is enjoying himself at the hotel in the village, drinking on my tab.”
“Your brother and his wife also live here.”
“Stuck here is more accurate.” Vallotton moved into shadow. “Daniel was heli-skiing—jumping from a damn helicopter onto the top of a godforsaken inaccessible slope—when he hurt himself. He and MC don’t really live anywhere. They wander around the world while Daniel searches for adventure. They’ll stay here until he heals, then if ski season is over they’ll head to Rio or somewhere exotic.”
Agnes resisted commenting on the Vallottons’ way of life and turned to leave, needing to see the bench and grove up close in the light of day.
“I don’t suppose Mademoiselle Cowell could have been killed by someone we don’t know?” Vallotton asked as he held a door open and turned on his flashlight. It was a different staircase from the one Agnes had used to come up, and very dark. The spiral was tight and so narrow it was dizzying, like walking down a vertical tunnel.
“Not likely, but we’re looking.” They reached the bottom step and exited into an elegantly furnished sitting room. When shut behind them, the door to the stair appeared to vanish into the woodwork.
Vallotton noted her expression. “You must have come up the original stairs.”
They emerged into the corridor and Agnes wondered how they were to piece together where everyone was at what time the day before. How many concealed passages were there? Or stairways? She would check the walls of her bedroom carefully before sleeping there another night.
“You spoke with Officer Petit about finding the body, but I wouldn’t mind hearing what happened for myself.” She started to reach for another cigarette but distracted herself by pulling out her notebook.
“Little to tell. My driver dropped me at the top of the hill and I put him up in the Croix Blanche. He didn’t want to risk the walk down, and he was right. I nearly killed myself. Slid halfway down on the ice, and it’s a miracle I didn’t break a leg. That’s why I assumed Mademoiselle Cowell had fallen and hit her head.”
“Why were you so far away from the château in that weather?”
“Our housekeeper, Madame Puguet, was waiting when I came in the front door. She told me Mimi was pulling one of her disappearing acts. Usually that means she’s at Arsov’s since he lets her have the run of the place. I set off to retrieve her and that’s when I practically fell over the body. Did literally fall and see her there, frozen. It was clear she was dead and didn’t need a doctor. It never occurred to me, or to any of us, that she had been killed.”
Vallotton pushed open a heavy door and clicked off his flashlight. These rooms were flooded with daylight. “It happened quickly. One minute I was worried about falling, and the next was in a panic to find what scared Mimi so badly. Then I slipped and saw what had. We ran straight to Arsov’s—it was closer—and called the gendarmerie.”
“Mimi was frightened? She found the body before you?” Agnes’s hand fluttered to her pocket for a cigarette, but she stilled it. How had they missed that the girl discovered the body? “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“I was on my way to Arsov’s to see if Mimi was there. It’s faster to cut across the lawn and I angled up through the grove, mainly for protection from the wind. The storm was in a lull but it was still intense.”
“Why didn’t you call them and ask?”
Vallotton grimaced. “I offered to go. I was trying to delay seeing my family and I’d already been out in the weather, a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. Expected to find Mimi cajoling one more cup of hot chocolate and planned to share a bottle of wine with Arsov. He has a case of—” He stopped before she could interrupt him. “Back to the point. I had my head down against the wind. I didn�
��t see Mimi until she ran into me. She was crying. Hysterical. She pulled me along, deeper into the grove than I would have gone otherwise, and I slipped on the ice. That’s when I saw Mademoiselle Cowell. I fell and she was there, on the ground in front of me. Not two feet away. Her face was icy.” He glanced around as if to erase the image. “But I recognized her, or thought I knew who she had to be. A bit of face and the top of her dress was visible. It was enough.”
Agnes remembered that this was at least an hour before she arrived and therefore before the body was completely encased in ice.
“That’s when I understood that Mimi had already seen her,” Vallotton said. “Who wouldn’t be frightened given what she saw? We ran to Arsov’s. It was closer and I knew his nurse was there. I thought Mimi might need medical attention.”
For a moment Agnes wanted to strangle Petit. He should have learned these details right away, when he first spoke with Vallotton upon arriving at the château. Then she remembered the ferocity of the storm and calmed herself.
“What precisely did Mimi see?” she asked.
“Felicity Co—” Vallotton stopped. He looked at Agnes for a long moment. “I see what you mean. I assumed she saw what I had. That she happened upon the body, perhaps slipped and saw her.”
Agnes took a deep breath. There was a chance the girl had seen the killer. A slim chance. More likely Vallotton was right and she had only seen what he had.
“I’ll talk to her this morning.” Agnes calculated quickly. She would still speak with Nick Graves first, no need to wake a sleeping child.
Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Page 7