“Said a family member would have called for her to clean up right away. Had to be someone,” Carnet hesitated, “‘inconsiderate’ is the word she used; I’d say embarrassed.”
“I didn’t notice any odor or residue in her mouth,” said Blanchard, “and I did look for obvious signs of obstruction. But the cold would have tempered the smell. Now I’ll give her another look. Of course, the lab will swab when we get her there.”
“Look at these fingerprints on the wall.”
Agnes leaned in where Carnet indicated.
“It looks like they belong to whoever vomited,” he said. “We can test for a match. If they were hers it appears that she crouched down and rested on her fingertips pretty hard, then moved them a few inches. As if she was keeping her balance. Fortunately, the stone held the oils. I think she’d put lotion on recently and the surface worked nearly as well as glass. Can’t imagine why anyone would crouch over like this if they weren’t sick.”
“Why was she ill?” Agnes said.
“Stomach virus,” said Blanchard, “ate something that didn’t agree with her. Saw something? Could have simply been in pain. High-level pain causes vomiting, and a heart attack in women is often signaled by vomiting. Won’t know until the autopsy. It’s unusual to have heart attack in someone so young, but not impossible.”
“She looked healthy to me, apart from the injuries.” Agnes studied the surrounding area. There were a few chairs against the wall and farther along was a heavy chest. It was possible there had been a struggle, but nothing appeared disturbed. “Could she have been stabbed here, vomited because of the pain, and made her way outside?”
“Inspector Lüthi, where is the blood?” Blanchard said. “She was stabbed where she fell. That I can tell you. It is just as we worked out earlier.”
“You mentioned food poisoning. What about regular poisoning? Could she have been poisoned and then died of the knife wound?”
Blanchard closed his eyes for a moment. “Of course she could have been poisoned. That might cause vomiting. I still say she died as a result of the knife wound, not poisoned then stabbed … An autopsy will clarify this.”
“I’m interested in more than cause of death,” said Agnes. “I want to know how she spent her last hours.”
“If she were poisoned to the extent that she was vomiting, then I might expect to see continued distress at the site of her death.”
“Outside, she would have been hunched over, crippled with pain?”
“You are speculating too far, Inspector.”
Agnes turned to Carnet. “Robert, could you talk to the maid again and see if anything is out of place here? Something that would indicate a struggle, ask if the chairs have been moved or if something is missing.” Then an idea occurred to her. “Doctor, could she be pregnant? I was deathly ill with my first child. All day. Never-ending.”
“She didn’t look pregnant,” said Carnet.
Agnes shook her head. “I didn’t think she was about to deliver, but she might have morning sickness.”
Doctor Blanchard murmured agreement.
“More importantly,” Agnes continued, “she might have known she was pregnant. I’m interested in her state of mind. You can draw urine even though she is … cold, can’t you?”
“Urine has a great deal of salt and ammonia. It doesn’t freeze at these temperatures. The trouble is getting at it. And she might not have any in her bladder. It will be an invasive test done this way.”
“She’s going to be autopsied, you can’t get more invasive than that, and being pregnant might play into her mental condition.” Agnes looked around, making sure Petit hadn’t joined them. “Not every woman wants to be pregnant. Sometimes it’s just the initial surprise or the timing. She may have been angry or depressed or scared. If she’d just found out, she might have been in an altered state of mind. It could have pushed her to behave inappropriately.”
“I can try to get a sample but I still need a method to test it.”
Agnes had a distinct memory of a familiar box among the toiletries in the cook’s well-stocked storeroom. Either the pregnancy test was bought and never needed or was part of the cook’s desire to provide for any eventuality. It didn’t matter. It was exactly what the doctor needed. “Leave finding a means to test it to me.”
“While you’re working your miracles, I’ll do my part.” The doctor paused before leaving, nodding to Carnet. “Tell her about the knife.”
“Did you know that a pear knife is not really pointed? It’s got a nice blade for cutting the fruit skin but isn’t long—”
“Or dangerous?”
“That’s another way to put it. The doctor got a laugh out of the idea. Says our weapon looks like a weapon. Long and sharp. More like a dagger than a knife.”
What kind of blade could cut through an entire body, creating these wounds? “We’ve ruled out no one,” she said. “I need to speak to the cook again, then I’ll take a quick look upstairs where you found her clothes before I talk to the little girl.”
Carnet gave her a half salute before walking off in the other direction. Halfway up a flight of broad stairs she heard voices: Julien Vallotton and his sister-in-law. After climbing a few more steps she slowed. They didn’t know she was listening.
“I count the pills, that’s how I know he didn’t take one. He was no more drugged yesterday afternoon than I was,” Marie-Chantal said.
“Why would Daniel lie?” Vallotton asked.
“With your alibi, you forget that the rest of us aren’t so lucky.”
“I think it takes more than being here to make you a suspect. Motive is usually a consideration, and what possible motive could Daniel have for killing a woman he barely knew?”
“He doesn’t think I know,” Marie-Chantal sounded choked, “about the other women.”
“You think Daniel was having an affair and she threatened to tell you so he killed her? Pretty fast work, two weeks to start an affair and get it to the point where she would have such a hold over him.”
“Don’t be a hypocrite. You thought the same thing when you arrived. I heard you ask Antoinette how well Daniel knew her. We’re stuck here for weeks. She’s beautiful and smart and he would be attracted. How could he help it?”
They were silent and Agnes stopped walking. She was near the top of the stairs and didn’t want to disturb them yet.
“I don’t know what made you dream this up,” Vallotton said. “Although just being here is enough of an excuse. I know it drove my mother mad, but you need to listen to yourself. Besides, Daniel can’t walk, how can he have an affair, much less stab a woman in the back outside in a storm? You’re being ridiculous.”
Marie-Chantal gave a strangled cry. “Of course he can walk.”
Agnes tiptoed halfway down the stairs then clumped her way up again. When she reached the top, Vallotton was alone. He looked perplexed, not worried.
“She doesn’t mean half of what she says and didn’t know you were here.” He glanced up and Agnes noticed the large mirror. She hadn’t been looking up, but it was clear that Vallotton had seen her reflection in it. She flushed. “People with secrets shouldn’t stand in corridors and raise their voices,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think my brother had anything to do with Felicity Cowell’s death.”
“Pretty damning when his wife is suspicious,” Agnes said, although she couldn’t believe a man whose leg was riddled with thin metal rods had stabbed a woman outside in a storm. She looked in each direction before turning down the hall.
“I may not have the highest opinion of Daniel, but I’m honest enough to admit that most of what I pretend to believe is the result of jealousy.”
“You, jealous of him?” Agnes gave Julien Vallotton a hard glance.
“Sure, I inherited the responsibility and he got the woman I wanted to marry. Cause enough for a good case of jealousy.”
Agnes wondered how much of what Vallotton said was true; wouldn’t he want to protect his family above all? “Why would his wif
e suspect him?” She turned a corner and headed up another flight of stairs, hoping she would end up at the fur vault. Vallotton followed.
“She doesn’t,” he said. “She’s just tired. Probably wishes she hadn’t married into the family at all, which is, sadly, our usual state of affairs. My father, handsome, affluent, and influential, managed to have four wives. My mother was the last. Daniel’s only on number one. He has some misery to make or he’ll never catch up.”
It all sounded too flippant to have the weight of truth. On the other hand she would have to speak with Daniel Vallotton again and see if he could walk. Apart from his injuries he was a strong man.
She stopped in front of a door and Vallotton nodded. “Fur vault.”
Leaving the problem of Daniel Vallotton for later, Agnes unlocked the door. Earlier she had looked inside the room where Felicity Cowell’s clothes had been found; now the space was flooded with natural light. She frowned at the realization that Petit had opened the shutters, altering the scene, although it appeared that he had photographed everything else in place. Shelves lining the walls were filled with long boxes, all neatly labeled in faded script. There was an enormous mirror on castors and a few marble-topped tables strewn with lamps, but otherwise there was no furniture. A set of modern clothes lay crumpled on the floor.
There was a loud rumbling noise outside and Vallotton crossed the room to the window. It overlooked the spot where the body was found and, among the fallen trees, a man with a chain saw was gesticulating to Carnet.
“I think we may have a clash of opinions about starting the cleanup from the storm,” he said, leaving.
Alone, Agnes pulled a pen from her handbag and used it to lift an article of clothing from the floor. The skirt of a dark suit. Next to it lay a tailored jacket and simple white blouse. Nearby was a pair of shoes. Good leather with a high but sensible-enough heel. A far cry from the white silk dress embroidered with diamonds that Felicity Cowell had died wearing. Agnes rocked back on her heels and studied the clothes. Even if she had a reason to wear that dress, why had the woman left the room barefoot? She hadn’t planned to be outside. Had she panicked? Agnes thought about the pregnancy, then decided that Doctor Blanchard was right. She was speculating far beyond the evidence.
She maneuvered between the boxes of clothing to the center of the room and used her pen to nudge the mobile phone that lay on the floor. No markings, though they assumed it was the dead woman’s. Unfortunately the battery was discharged and there was no way to tell when she had last used it. Much more interesting for the moment was a heavy silver-backed hand mirror with the glass shattered out of the frame. She studied its placement, then turned and ran a hand down a row of boxes, randomly lifting a lid. Old dresses wrapped in tissue paper; likely worth a fortune. Turning slowly, taking in the details again, an idea formed in her mind.
Footsteps pounded in the corridor and Petit arrived out of breath. “Carnet said you wanted to see me.”
She was pleased he had managed to push impending fatherhood from the forefront of his mind and even more thankful he hadn’t broken a leg while walking off his anger. “You photographed these rooms: what did you think was important?”
“Just a mess of her things. Looked liked she knocked a table over.”
“You didn’t move anything?”
“Of course not.”
“What do you think about the clothes?”
“Good quality. Businesslike if you’re in a high-end business. But she doesn’t take care of them. Probably has plenty and doesn’t need to make them last.”
Agnes was surprised. Petit had more imagination than she’d given him credit for.
“What about another possibility? Stand here, in the doorway. You can’t see her clothes from here. Maybe they fell in a messy pile or maybe they were shoved underneath the table. Could she have been hiding them?”
Petit crouched to study the angle from a normal person’s height. “She might have kicked them there on purpose but it’s the same thing, careless with her belongings.”
“What about the broken mirror? That’s a little too careless. An antique silver mirror. Probably valuable, and in her work she deals with antiques every day. She should have more respect, don’t you think?”
Agnes pulled a piece of tissue paper from one of the storage boxes and used it to pick up the mirror, leaving the handle visible. The monogram was so elaborate that it took a moment to work out the letter V. “It belongs to the Vallottons. I don’t think she would drop it carelessly.”
“The handle was a distance from the glass,” Petit said, “like it scattered when it broke.”
“Not like this?” Agnes indicated a straight drop. “The trajectory would be affected by the weight of the handle; it’s solid whereas the glass oval is even heavier.” She tried to work out the release in her mind, testing different positions. The mathematics were easy enough. Gravity and weight and velocity were precise elements. She moved a few feet closer to the door, looking carefully at the labels on the boxes as she went, finally locating the one she needed. White silk with diamonds. “Coronation. 1804,” was written in spidery faded script.
“She starts here, at the door, and looks into the boxes.” Agnes ran her hand lightly along the lids that were not quite put back in place and the few that were still open. “She’s looking for something specific, or simply curious until she comes to this one. The gown worn to Napoleon’s coronation.” Agnes made as if she was opening the box lid and mimed removing the dress. “She lays it aside and takes off her clothes. Or maybe she had already taken off her clothes. Maybe she folds them neatly, maybe she drops them in a heap right away.”
“Is she alone?” Petit asked.
“That is the question, isn’t it? For now we don’t know. Maybe someone was watching her.”
“Maybe they picked out that dress?”
“Good point, but did they force her to take that dress, threaten her in some way, or was this fun and playful? A striptease. We know that her clothes came off and landed on the floor. Somehow they ended up under that table. She threw them there or kicked them. Or someone else did.” Agnes stood back and looked again. “Look at the trajectory of the items. At the angle and the movement—of the clothing, of the glass breakage. It’s in one direction. I think she started here, the clothing was disturbed—we don’t know how—and the mirror was thrown or tossed, all as she moved from where I am standing to…” She looked across the room. “To the other door.”
“She was running from someone?”
“Or with someone. A game of dress-up or a violent episode.” Agnes wondered if the broken hand mirror was the beginning of the killer’s violent behavior. Perhaps Felicity Cowell kicked the clothing as she fled her attacker? He or she threw the mirror and it hit her, or missed and broke on the floor. Or she threw the mirror? No, that would put the assailant between her and the other door. Agnes ran her hand through her hair. Who among the household wouldn’t care that they broke something valuable? Not one of the staff, but the Vallottons. Or Mulholland? His godmother would forgive him almost anything. He was British and perhaps his visit to the château had less to do with seeing the marquise and more to do with following a young woman to Switzerland. Agnes studied the objects, willing them to speak in the same way that data from financial crimes had spoken to her for years. There were always patterns; it was a matter of finding them.
“Maybe fear or panic caused her nausea,” she said.
“Question for the doctor,” Petit said. “Questions I can’t answer. No one can answer.” He stepped near and folded his arms across his chest. “I think I can make it to the top of the hill and to the hospital. I’ve studied it and with a rope and some help … My wife needs me. She shouldn’t be having this baby alone.”
“André, I understand. I’ve delivered three sons and my husband was with me.” Tears sprang to Agnes’s eyes at the memory of her first pregnancy. And their trip to the hospital. It was the middle of the night and George had been th
rilled, and his excitement had countered her last-minute fears. Where had that happiness gone? The trickle of memory threatened to overwhelm her.
“What if something happens?” Petit said. “What if this one doesn’t go right and she dies and I wasn’t there?”
“There’s nothing we can do. You know that truthfully you can’t climb that hill. There’s a good chance you would end up with a broken arm or leg, and what good would that do your new baby when you’re all home together in a day or two? Your wife’s not alone, she’s in a hospital where they deliver babies every day.”
He stepped close, towering over her. Menace in the set of his shoulders. Blood rushed, filling her eardrums.
“Even if you made it up the hill, what then?” she said. “Sitting in the gendarmerie? They’d put you to work helping people in distress. You still couldn’t make the trip to the hospital. Focus on what we can accomplish here. Think of the dead woman. She is someone’s daughter, perhaps someone’s wife or mother, and we owe them answers. We owe her justice.”
A long moment passed. Turning swiftly, Petit left without a word and she drew a deep breath, leaning down to rest her hands on her knees like an athlete at the end of a long race. Slowly she stood upright, her emotions under control. The past locked away again.
Absently, she rummaged in her handbag for the bottle of lotion she’d taken from George’s emergency kit. The smell was soothing and distantly familiar. She leaned her face near the window, feeling sorry for Petit.
Far below, Julien Vallotton walked past the gaping patches of black earth where fallen trees had ripped roots and ice from the ground. He stopped near Carnet and sent the man with the chain saw to a distant corner of the property.
“Never trouble for him,” she murmured.
“I suspect he has more trouble than you realize.” Marie-Chantal stood in the doorway, her straight nose and elegant jaw sculpted by the jagged streaks of sunlight. Her shoulderlength blond hair glinted and she appeared smaller and more petite than Agnes remembered.
Marie-Chantal joined Agnes at the window and they watched Vallotton walk alone toward the shore. For a moment Agnes had a glimmer of comprehension about the burden of living here, the responsibility for care of a national monument.
Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Page 10