Marie-Chantal glanced at Agnes’s wedding ring and sighed. “You’re married. You must understand regret.” She wiped the moisture caused by her breath from the cold glass. “Regret that leads to guilt so strong you hurt? Longing for what you can’t have and wondering if you only want it because of that? Emotions so confused you don’t believe them?”
Agnes gripped the edge of a shutter so hard her rings dug into her flesh. The pain kept her from crying out. How could this woman understand regret? Or longing? “No, I wanted what I had,” she said evenly.
Marie-Chantal stepped away from the window and shook her shoulders as if she had a chill. “I’m sorry. You have larger concerns. The poor dead woman.”
Just that quickly the mood in the room changed, and Agnes could believe that Julien Vallotton was jealous of his brother. Marie-Chantal had a quality that was unusual if not unique: an intersection of beauty and intensity of personality that could alternately electrify or calm the atmosphere around her. Whatever laws of physics or emotions that made it happen, Agnes was grateful.
“Last night you said you spoke to Felicity Cowell only a few times?” she asked, pleased that her voice was steady.
“Yes,” Marie-Chantal replied, “although we are about the same age. I admit that I was fascinated. She was the main topic of dinner conversation for weeks before she arrived. What she would do here, her expertise. I was jealous. To be that needed must feel … well, special. To have work that was valued.”
“Did she avoid the family?”
“That sounds sneaky. I’d just say she knew her place.” Marie-Chantal smiled apologetically. “An employee. Antoinette lends a certain atmosphere of formality.”
“No mixing with the staff?”
“It’s not a rule, but meals are served separately and it’s a large house. We don’t have any reason to interact and we have a sort of schedule for when the maids clean and things like that. We stay clear of them, let them do their work. Felicity Cowell wasn’t exactly staff, however, I wouldn’t have dreamed of bothering her while she worked. She did have dinner with us once. The night after she arrived. We had other guests and she rounded out the table.”
“Did she eat alone the other nights?”
Marie-Chantal looked surprised. “I don’t know. I never thought about it. Maybe she ate in the village since she stayed there.”
Agnes was reminded that the inhabitants of the château lived a very different life from anyone she knew. “You and your husband never met Felicity in London?”
“No, I would have said. Besides, I’m not often there. That’s Julien’s town. I prefer Paris and Berlin. Hong Kong.” Marie-Chantal looked around the room as if taking in the details. “Antoinette told me that Mademoiselle Cowell was here before she died. Did she run outside from here? It’s a long way down.”
“Why is this room called the fur vault?”
“There are likely furs somewhere. It’s just as likely that they stored fur pelts here a thousand years ago and the name never changed. Names tend to stick. Daniel and I share a suite of rooms called the nursery although no children have slept there since the French Revolution.”
Agnes snorted a half laugh. Since George’s death she and the boys had spent most nights at her parents-in-law’s. She slept in their guest room, which they assured her was a leftover title and not a reflection on her status in the house. She wasn’t convinced and thought Marie-Chantal might consider the suggestive notion of being made to sleep in the nursery. The marquise wasn’t a young woman and likely wanted to meet the next generation.
Marie-Chantal trailed her fingers across the boxes. “Fabulous, aren’t they? Better than most museum collections. I’ve been told there are even more in an attic somewhere. Probably two hundred years of the best clothing in the world packed away.”
“Who uses this room?” Agnes asked.
“No one, not now. Years ago, Antoinette’s couturier would come from Paris with the gowns basted together and finish them according to her specifications. Friends of my mother’s say she was exacting, the kind of client a couturier adores and hates. Balenciaga dressed her until he retired.” Marie-Chantal smiled and Agnes felt the room light up. “Have you seen the portrait of her in the blue salon? Painted just before her marriage. It was a different time and she was only fifteen, but the portrait is magnificent. She looks young and old. Fresh and lovely, yet already strong and determined. I’ll show you sometime.”
While listening, Agnes walked through the small side door to the adjoining room, following the trajectory of damage left by whatever had happened the day before. There were three tall mirrors on wheeled stands, a wire dressmaker’s form, and a row of hooks on the wall. With only a few straight-backed chairs, and no rugs, the room looked and felt empty. Nothing appeared disturbed. There was an even smaller door in the corner; it opened to a twisting spiral staircase. She led the way and Marie-Chantal followed, carrying a yellow hat laden with feathers that she had removed from a box.
Agnes negotiated the stairs, bracing herself against the walls to prevent a nasty tumble. She asked a question over her shoulder. “Everyone has an opinion, but I would like to hear your thoughts: why was Felicity Cowell wearing that dress?”
“This is the psychological part of the mystery, isn’t it?” Marie-Chantal turned the hat in her hand as she descended, accustomed to the tortuous stairs. “Vanity, a desire to connect with that particular dress—after all, it does have a special history—curiosity. Who knows? I’ve always wanted to try on one of the early Balenciagas. Legendary designs, but I didn’t want to ask. Actually I’m afraid that they’ll be too small, and I don’t think I can face a corset.” They reached the bottom of the flight.
“But why that dress?” Agnes looked up and down the corridor, sighting the spot where they had discovered the vomit and wondering if Felicity felt ill and came down the stairs for help. Was it as simple as that? Perhaps she wasn’t running from someone, but was seeking help. That still didn’t explain her going outdoors. It was as if there were two parts to her trajectory and this moment in the hall was the break between them.
“I don’t know if it matters what she was wearing. Of course she might have been trying to impress someone. Maybe she was going to steal it.” Marie-Chantal shook her head. “No, I don’t mean that, although it might have been clear to her that we wouldn’t have known.” She rested the tiny hat on her head and studied her reflection in a nearby mirror. “Maybe she was just having fun and saw something by chance. Or someone. And had to go down. Or maybe she was running away from something.”
“You mean someone,” said Agnes. She raised her hand to smell the lotion. It reminded her of something. Not George, but something. Or someone.
Marie-Chantal removed the hat and shrugged. “It’s all just guesswork. It really doesn’t matter. She’s dead.”
Ten
Agnes asked a final time if there was anything else the little girl remembered or wanted to tell her. Mimi shook her head, and Agnes smoothed the girl’s hair and scooted her off the sofa. Then she thanked the nurse for her time.
She took a moment to decide what to do next. She was tired and cold. It was only noon and already the day felt long. At the other end of the room Arsov’s nurse settled a blanket around his shoulders and across his legs, speaking close to his ear. To delay the return trip to the château, Agnes joined them.
“Talk of being capable of killing someone is nonsense,” Arsov said without preamble.
Agnes took her place on the same chair she had occupied the night before and Arsov angled his wheelchair to face her. Before she had a chance to greet him properly, a maid pulled a rolling cart nearby. With a practiced flourish the butler removed domed silver covers from the food. Arsov grinned. Agnes noticed that the staff now had outdoor clothes on over their uniforms. It made for a bizarre scene.
“Don’t eat much anymore, but I still like to look at good food,” Arsov said. Lunch was a delicate filet of perch, accompanied by small potatoes and
asparagus. A light wine sauce was on the side.
“Impressive with the power out,” Agnes said, touching her heated plate, slightly in awe of the attention to detail.
“Pay them enough and they’ll figure out a way. Brought my cook from Paris. Got rid of my secretary and everyone else when I came here, but I nearly cried at the thought of never tasting Antoine’s food again, so I bribed him to leave France. You would have thought I was asking him to move to the Ukraine. I promised that if he’d stay with me three more years I’d set him up in his own restaurant anywhere in the world. He’ll filet his hand to keep food on the table so I don’t have reason to back out of my promise.”
The butler opened a bottle of white wine and poured three glasses, offering one to Frédéric Estanguet, who was slouched deep in a chair near the French doors, far from the fire. He had offered to accompany Agnes, saying that no one should be outdoors alone in the cold. She hoped the change of atmosphere would help him recover from the shock of seeing the dead woman’s body the night before. Despite her hopes, during the walk she had grown irritated. Wasn’t there a Good Samaritan code of behavior? Seeing him now, she was angry. They had all had a bad experience. She wanted to tell Estanguet to buck up. He’d seen a dead body, not had one fall on him.
Prodded by the butler, Estanguet moved to a chair near the low table they were using as an alternative to relocating to the even colder dining room. His hand was unsteady and Agnes wondered if he needed the nurse. Then Estanguet took a sip of wine, closed his eyes, and appeared to relax.
“Monsieur Arsov,” she said, “your butler asked me if we had made progress on the investigation. I’m afraid I don’t have much to report. He’s very conscientious. He said he’d rechecked all the doors and windows to make sure they are locked. I don’t think your staff have any cause to worry, although I am surprised you don’t have professional security.”
“You think a hired thug would take more care with my life than I do? I take my precautions. Since Stalingrad I have been ready to defend my life at all times. That was a lesson I learned well.”
Agnes wanted to ask exactly how Arsov planned to defend himself. The old man could barely draw a solid breath and was too weak to walk. She surveyed the wheelchair, half expecting to see high-tech weaponry attached to the sides. Or was it possible that Arsov planned to light his oxygen tank with a cigarette and let it explode in an enemy’s face? The idea had a certain dramatic flair. She felt her mind wandering and knew that it was the result of fatigue.
“Anyone can kill,” Arsov said, absently slipping his hand to the empty space between his thigh and the chair arm. He smoothed the blanket and Agnes stifled a grin. The old man had a gun. She bet it wasn’t licensed.
“The marquise, St. Sebastian bless that woman, could kill as easily as my butler opens a bottle of wine, and do it with a steady hand and no remorse.” He shot Agnes a dark look. “How is she? Who does she think did it? You won’t speculate, but you should. Madame la marquise has good instincts. It’s reason that motivates a killer. What reason would motivate you? Don’t look so shocked. Take the kindest mother, threaten her child, and create a killer. Same thing with cannibalism. Hungry enough and you’ll eat anything. I ate shoe leather once. Very unsatisfying; later I wished I had the shoe leather to wear.”
Agnes wouldn’t be drawn into speculating. She took a forkful of fish and understood why Arsov couldn’t bear to lose his chef.
“What did Mimi tell you?” Arsov demanded.
“What we already knew. Nothing.”
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Monsieur Ralph Mulholland.”
Mulholland crossed the threshold swiftly, pausing to acknowledge Agnes and Estanguet with a curt nod. “I came to see if you needed anything,” he said to Arsov. “Ridiculous, I see now. You’ve even got the police.”
“Inspector Lüthi is not here for me, she was speaking with Mimi.” Arsov motioned Mulholland forward and the butler hastened to set another place for lunch.
“She is a good child, Mimi,” Arsov continued. “She reminds me of my sister, Anya. Too young to be alone in the world. She will be taken care of when I am gone.”
“Has she lived with the Vallottons long?” Agnes asked. “You mentioned they’re her guardians.”
“Her parents died and old Monsieur Vallotton brought her to live with them. He died a year later.” Agnes hid a smile at Arsov calling anyone old. “She is their legal responsibly but I am leaving my estate to her. They look after her, but she’s not one of them.” He removed a hand-rolled cigarette from a silver box and sucked on it like it was the next course of his meal.
“Isn’t that a little unusual if the Vallottons are her legal guardians?” she asked.
“No one objects to more money,” said Mulholland. “Especially guardians.”
Agnes recalled that his parents had died when he was young.
“You are right,” Arsov said. “I’ll make her independent, plus I’m giving my collection of Russian objets d’art to them, as a token. A thank-you.” Vaguely, he waved a hand toward the collections strewn across the nearby tables and cabinets: Fabergé eggs, enameled and bejeweled frames, silver-faced icons. “It is the least I can do. Might even be known as the Arsov collection someday, but that’s not necessary. I’m not prideful.”
Agnes smothered another smile. In the light of day the room looked like someone had ransacked a Romanov palace prior to the revolution.
Arsov glanced around as if sizing up the real estate. “This is very special place to me and Mimi would be happy here. I have asked Julien Vallotton to deed use of the house to her, just for her lifetime.” Arsov plucked a speck of tobacco from his lips. “It is a bond between us, this place.”
Agnes listened to his account of their time together, noting that neither Estanguet nor Mulholland ate much, despite the excellent food. Judging from the expression on Estanguet’s face he was as intrigued as she was at the inclinations of the truly rich. At Arsov’s age it was likely Mimi would still be a young girl when he died. She wouldn’t need her own mansion. On the other hand Mulholland looked surly. Perhaps this was what she could expect from her own boys when they reached their midtwenties. Surly boy-men. Agnes changed the subject.
“I don’t know who the marquise suspects, but I’m sure she is unhappy. Not only a murder but the dress worn by Mademoiselle Cowell was valuable and it’s ruined now.”
“My dragon nurse told me. A dress worn to Napoleon’s coronation. The marquise will think it good riddance. Her husband was part of the old French nobility, not the upstart emperor’s. The emperor may have created modern Switzerland but the Vallottons didn’t need him. The dead woman couldn’t have chosen better.”
“The dress has value, a history,” said Agnes.
“You don’t see value the way they do. The marquise values honor and Napoleon is not her idea of honor.” Arsov sucked on a cigarette. “I may collect history but the Vallottons don’t, they live it.”
Mulholland set his wineglass on the table with a thump and called to the butler for more. Agnes considered dragging him outside and giving him a short lesson in manners. A weekend with her mother-in-law would be good for him.
“You’ve surely lived your share of history,” she directed at Arsov.
“You think being born in Russia means Doctor Zhivago. Your generation thinks that is war. Julie Christie and Omar Sharif in fur, with tales of love and ice palaces.”
“I think Doctor Zhivago was an earlier generation than mine and an earlier war than yours.”
“Zhivago should have left Russia. I did. No one cared who died there. My family, my friends, my comrades-in-arms were killed as fodder for the egos of our leaders. When I decided to abandon my home country it took me weeks traveling at night along the Volga to find a way out. And that was by accident. Literally I ran smack—you say smack—into a man during the worst snowstorm of my life. It is fortunate that after my family was killed I had traveled to Stalingrad. I told you my brothers were t
here? In Stalingrad?”
Agnes shook her head.
“Well, they were. In the Red Army. And I found them. They were killed a few months later in the siege. That is another reason I left. There was no one for me.” He puffed a ring of smoke, watching it dissipate. “Before they died, my battle instincts were honed. In Stalingrad the enemy could be around any corner. We occupied sections of buildings, ran past each other in parallel tunnels, risked meeting a sniper at every opening, and lived because of our instincts. You will not believe me, you think I must have had a sign that night during the blizzard—a military emblem on his collar, the feel of his hat, his cologne, his stink, something that told me this man who had his back to me was a Nazi. This, like heroism, you cannot understand until you see it for yourself. I know that my subconscious acted before I had chance to think. I slipped my knife into his side and ripped up, lucky that I struck soft tissue, fortunate that I had done this before.”
Estanguet moaned and Agnes turned toward him, fighting her own sense of revulsion.
“He fell,” Arsov continued. “There were others and I struck again.”
Estanguet turned gray and Agnes wondered if his health was failing. Seeing the body, twenty-four hours of cold, and now this violent story. She considered asking a servant to accompany him to the château.
Estanguet gulped the last of his wine and walked toward the windows, turning his back on the conversation.
“Two more died that night in the snow,” continued Arsov, “and I was face-to-face with a fourth. This one had a gun in his hand. Just before I thrust my knife and he fired his weapon, I swore. In Russian. He swore at the same time in English and that is what saved us. A word in German and the next moment would have been my end.”
Agnes shivered, remembering the storm the previous night. She could imagine the whiteout. A fight in blinding conditions. Killing blindly. She rose and walked to stand next to Estanguet. Checking his coloring in her peripheral vision. He looked better.
Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Page 11