She breathed on a small glass pane to clear the ice, but it was too thick to melt that way. Although it was impossible to see out, she had walked the property enough to know it now. She could picture the cliff behind them, and the broad flat knuckle of land that gave the château and the mansion a panoramic view across the lake south toward France. Old trees, now bent by the weight of ice, trickled out from the base of the cliff, ending in the grove where Felicity Cowell had died. Apart from this grove there was a neatness to the plateau, with the various outbuildings blending in almost too well: summer pavilion, old stables now used as a garage, the ice house, and the Orangerie at the end of the formal gardens. Did Felicity’s assailant cross the lawn from one of these hiding places or was he or she lying in wait? Using the state of the body, and the timing of the arrival of the storm, Blanchard had narrowed the time of death to within about an hour and a half. Agnes had asked Carnet and Petit to talk to everyone again and get a better sense of their activities and of the storm during that period of time. How visible was the grove? Could Felicity even see where she was going? Why didn’t someone see her attacker from the dozens of windows?
“You ran into a regiment of Brits?” Mulholland said behind her. “In the Soviet Union in 1942? Bloody unlikely.”
“Yet the man was British,” said Arsov, “cut off from his company. It was not a fighting unit. Their task was information gathering—spying if caught out of uniform. I came upon him just after he ran into the Germans and he believed I saved him. He was right. He was scouting for information about the movements of the armies, and about supply possibilities of the Russian oil fields, for oil was important to all sides then as now.”
“Shame they stayed allies. Could have ended a bunch of nonsense right then,” Mulholland said.
“Ah, but you needed us as a fighting people just as he needed me that night. We took shelter in a barn, unwilling to risk walking farther in the storm. I had such detail about the situation in Stalingrad that he decided to bring me to their headquarters.”
With a glance at Estanguet, Agnes returned to her seat, wondering why Mulholland was here. He didn’t seem like the neighborly sort. On the other hand, they were all stir-crazy in the aftermath of the storm. She pulled a blanket over her legs, testing to see if she could see her breath. She could.
“Monsieur Mulholland, I am surprised you hadn’t met Mademoiselle Cowell before. In London. Two young people out on the town. She seemed like someone you would know.”
“What does that mean? Someone I would know?”
She looked at him carefully before changing the subject. “I always thought I wanted to live a hundred years ago,” she addressed herself to Arsov, “but this weather makes me think I was wrong.”
“A hundred years ago you would have dressed warmer.” Arsov settled his own blanket higher under his arms. “Even fifty years ago you would have dressed warmer. When I left my village I was fortunate to have my father’s bearskin coat. It is the little things that saved my life.”
“Did you manage to bring money with you?” Mulholland asked, attentive again.
“Money? You think we walked around with our pockets full of coins? What do I tell you?” Arsov called over to his nurse.
“Sew my diamonds into my hems.” She laughed. “As if I have diamonds.”
“Later I wished I had money. That is what they would say after the war, the ones who lived. Carry your wealth with you. Those were the lessons many took away. What I took away was to keep my money in a numbered account in Switzerland.” He laughed a hacking half cough.
“But that came later. I traveled with the British for some weeks. Men at war are strange. They want to hear any news of the outside. News of Stalingrad was of interest, for these soldiers had not seen siege warfare and already we were famous. Because of my father’s work I spoke fluent French and once out of Russia I wanted to join the famous Resistance.”
Agnes covered a laugh with a cough.
“You want to ask how my Russian accent grew back?” Arsov’s eyes closed and a faint smile appeared. “I found that after the war, as I started my business, it was better to be a Russian who escaped Stalin, who struggled through every day, than a man with a Russian name and no connections in France who spoke beautiful French. My father would have despaired as I unlearned my beautiful accent and forgot selected pieces of grammar.” He coughed and motioned for a handkerchief.
“These Brits were a cavalier group despite their serious mission. I think that like many who have seen horror, they were happy to get me to the place I wanted, even if they thought I would probably last only a few days or weeks. After all, we would all probably last only a few weeks.”
Agnes wished she’d met Arsov under better circumstances, wondering if she could introduce her boys to him when the investigation was over. She’d underestimated him, thinking he was born to wealth or had made his money under the harsh Russian regime and retired to Switzerland to enjoy his last days in pure capitalism.
The old man blew another ring of smoke. “After several weeks we reached the Mediterranean. There was a man going ashore; I never learned his name, but he agreed to take me on his dingy. He had only one question for me: if I had a weapon. It seems a stupid question to you, here we are at war, but the British had not armed me. There was a limit to their help. I was a civilian or maybe there were other reasons, maybe it was simple and no one thought to ask me. I showed him my knife and he was disgusted. He reached into his boot and pulled out real weapons. A pair of daggers. The blades were long, each with a razor-sharp edge and beautiful engraving on the blade. Lightweight steel, of craftsmanship I had never seen before.”
Agnes felt the power of the blades he described. Had Felicity Cowell seen the weapon that killed her? The idea of a knife was more frightening than a gun.
Arsov stabbed his cigarette out and smiled at her. “He used one of the pair to slash the side of our dingy to deflate it and we stepped onto the sand in water up to our thighs. Then he handed me the other. The boat washed away and he walked into the darkness leaving me alone in the night.
“I started my new life knowing that France was my destiny with my new Sykes-Fairbairn blade in my grip.”
Eleven
She wore a wool dress and tights colored to match and was unhappy about it, but the nurse had insisted, and Mimi had learned long ago that this was the one adult who couldn’t be swayed by tears (as was the kitchen staff at the Vallottons’), or by mention of her dead mother (which moved anyone in the Vallotton family), or tantrums (which worked with anyone else she had ever met). Only the nurse and Monsieur Arsov were imperturbable in front of these tactics. She tried mentioning her dead mother to Monsieur Arsov when they first met, but he had told her that everyone he had ever loved was dead and she should stop crying about her one sad tale. She had decided right then to like him. He was her best friend here. Everyone else was nice to her—she made a face when she thought of the housekeeper who was too strict to be called nice—but Monsieur Arsov was her special friend. He liked to race her down the long gold corridor of his house, pitting his steel wheels against her short legs, and never letting her win unless she earned it. The nurse had caught them once and objected, but Monsieur Arsov stopped her with a word. Or two words: a raise. Mimi wasn’t sure what it meant but she had remembered the words since they seemed to work well. She liked words.
The police lady with the ugly boots said Mimi was the same age as her youngest boy. The woman seemed to miss her little boy and Mimi had let her stroke her hair, tolerating the affection so she could learn what was happening. They had questions and more questions. The nurse sat beside her with the wings of her hat hiding her face, and Mimi fingered her starched skirt thinking it had to hurt when she sat. Still, Mimi was grateful for the nurse’s presence, for she knew Monsieur Arsov had insisted on it and that he would always protect her.
She only remembered parts of what they wanted to hear. She was tempted to make up answers, but that seemed like a way to
get more questions, so she kept it simple and true. She had fallen over the dead lady when she was walking to Monsieur Arsov’s. Reluctantly, she admitted that she had not walked directly from the Vallottons’ to Arsov’s—like she was supposed to do if she walked alone. One of the many, many rules: don’t go by the edge of the lake alone, don’t go on the battlements alone, don’t walk up to the village alone. Rules made to be broken.
Now that the lady with the boots had finished with her, Mimi peered around the door from the hall. She eyed the grown-ups and waited until Monsieur Arsov spoke. People paid attention when he talked, and she used that time to move across the room on tiptoes, clutching her stuffed elephant Elie to her chest, knowing that if she made it to the sofa they would never see her. She was supposed to be “traumatized,” whatever that was, and recuperating with hot chocolate in the kitchen. However, she wanted to hear what the adults said.
They were talking about the dead lady again. Mimi rolled her eyes. Surely they had talked about this enough. She had recognized the dead lady in the ice from the time days and days ago when they ate dinner together. Well, the dead lady ate dinner with the grown-ups. Mimi had been sent to the kitchen to have her dinner under the supervision of Marie-José, and then up to her room to sleep. She had nearly thrown a tantrum, but decided it would be better to go along meekly, and then creep back down and watch. After all, she didn’t actually want to sit with them. Boring. She just wanted to watch and listen.
The dead lady was pretty, of course not as pretty as her own mother: The most beautiful woman who lived. Her mother had said pretty is as pretty does. The dead lady would have never said anything so ridiculous. She had seemed delighted with the attention, smiling this way and that. Holding herself apart from the other women and talking to the men who couldn’t keep their eyes off her.
Mimi remembered the beautiful dresses and the handsome men and the way the candlelight reflected against the tall mirrors. It had been a magical evening. Now she listened to the policewoman say how sad it was and everyone agreed. Mimi looked carefully over the back of the sofa. They didn’t look sad. No one was crying, not like when her mother died and old Monsieur Vallotton had wiped his eyes and told her that she would always be taken care of. That day even Madame Puguet had cried.
The grown-ups talked on and on until she wished she had gone to the kitchen and had that hot chocolate. For the first time she wished the nurse would interrupt and tell everyone that Monsieur Arsov needed his rest. She did that enough when Mimi visited. Why not now? They sat around somberly but not sad, talking about what she had seen as if they had been there. She settled down into the soft sofa and waited and remembered that special night when the candles had burned so beautifully, recollecting the beautiful dresses one by one.
Twelve
Petit cornered Agnes in the main hall of the château. He was desperate to leave.
“If you have three boys,” he said, “you ought to know that my wife needs me.”
“You know the protocol. If there was anything I could do, I would. Rescue services won’t make you a priority over everyone who needs assistance.”
“Why isn’t this an emergency?”
“Because in the eyes of those who make the rules your wife doesn’t need you. You aren’t a trained medical professional. I’ve been in her situation. Once she arrived at the hospital she was focused one hundred percent on the delivery. I don’t mean this cruelly, but in the midst of labor she won’t miss you. She’ll have a dozen people helping her. My deliveries are a blur.” This wasn’t entirely true, in fact his wife was probably cursing him and his job, but Agnes knew from experience that once the baby arrived all she would remember was the joy.
“It’s a tale to tell your little boy or girl: the storm of the century the day he arrived. Now, if you could take this to the doctor?” She handed him the package the cook had given her. It was small and wrapped in brown paper. Petit turned on his heel and left and she was thankful he didn’t ask what was inside the package. A pregnancy test would have seemed like salt in a wound.
With her hand on the library door handle she paused to collect her thoughts. Inside the library, Nick Graves was seated at a long table surrounded by books and papers. She drew a chair up near him. He ignored her.
“When we spoke earlier you said Felicity Cowell looked like someone you would know. What did you mean by that?”
Graves didn’t speak so she took the plunge.
“Most Americans lump England with the Continent. They make it all part of Europe. But you don’t. You’re well traveled. You know the difference. You haven’t been to Europe; you didn’t lie to me when I asked, but you have been to England. She looked like someone you ‘would know.’ An interesting phrase. A specific phrase. You knew her.”
Graves shoved back from the table and walked to a window. Agnes followed him into the niche. The window was coated with ice and the niche was deeply shadowed. For a brief moment she was afraid. They were very much alone and he was a powerful young man. Powerful enough to stab a healthy young woman.
“Did you run in the same circles in London? Was that why you said she looked like someone you knew? Did she follow you here?”
He laughed. Really laughed. “Yeah, I knew her. Knew all about her. Uppity bitch, coming here like she owned the place. Pretended she didn’t recognize me. It’s been what? Three years? But she knew who I was and I knew for damn sure she was the same person. Felicity Cowell she might call herself but when I met her she was Courtney Cowell. Stripping in a nightclub.”
Agnes sucked an invisible stream of air through her lips. It whistled. “You’re certain?”
“I’m not likely to forget. I was in London for junior year and we met just after Christmas at an art opening. Nothing fancy, a student show. We became friends, or at least I thought we were.”
“Something happened?”
“We had a lot of laughs. She was great-looking, funny, smart, and I liked her. I was working hard during the day and partying at night but we could talk. We talked for hours. She told me she was in London on her own, wanting to break into the art world. I was there doing sort of the same thing. Except I’m more art history and she was auctions. Still, we had a lot in common.” He shrugged. “I was wrong.”
“Who broke it off?”
“Wasn’t much to break off, just laughs and some drinks.”
He started to walk away but Agnes blocked his path. “What happened?”
“Okay, so my dad’s a frigging senator, it’s not like I throw that around when I’m trying to make a life on my own in the one city where no one recognizes me. Some friends from home came to town and Dad sent me extra cash to take them out. Out to a proper place, a place he’d like to hear about, not a cheap student dive. He pulled some strings and we went to a club, a famous one. It’s private. And there she was. Taking her clothes off. She was angry when she saw me.”
“She was embarrassed.”
“She could have pulled it off. When I first saw her there I figured she was doing it for a lark. Like she was some rich guy’s kid who wanted to see what it was like to live underground. I knew she’d lied to me, but she was so cool and posh I would have believed she was a duke’s daughter walking on the wild side. I know what’s it like to want to be invisible, to not be my father’s son all the time.”
This was the first true expression of who Felicity Cowell was that Agnes had heard. She’d seen for herself that the young woman was beautiful, but she’d only a vague sense of her personality; just sporadic words and impressions. This was three-dimensional. Real.
“You learned that she wasn’t rich, that she needed the job?”
“She left that night after she saw me. When I was sober I realized that if she wanted to step outside a rich family’s world she’d strip in a dive where no one would recognize her.”
“Maybe she wanted to be seen? If she wanted to hurt someone close to her she might have wanted them to see what lengths she’d go to. Work in a club where thei
r friends would see. Embarrass the family.”
“Occurred to me. Sounds like my sister. But I saw Courtney, I mean Felicity, one more time before I left the city. I knew where to find her and I had to know. She told me the whole story to get rid of me. She’d left home when she was a kid, moved around, finally made it south to London. Made money doing whatever she had to.”
Agnes didn’t want to think what “doing whatever she had to” meant.
“Funny thing is,” said Graves, “she’d never gone to a friggin’ university, but she was the smartest person I’ve met. She had an amazing memory for art, for artists, for everything really, and she’d learned it all on her own. There was something special about her, but she hated me. Hated that I’d seen both sides of her. Then she walks in here. I knew it was her and just wanted to say hello.”
“And she ignored you?”
“She wouldn’t admit we’d met. I mean, it was between the two of us, but she wouldn’t admit to anything. Acted like I was a stranger.”
“She was afraid. If you’d told anyone here that she wasn’t university trained she would have been fired.”
“Well, I didn’t kill her.”
There was the sound of a door opening and Agnes knew this conversation was over. “You should have told me you knew her when I first asked. We would take your passport, but the roads are closed, so that’s not really a worry. And we’ll let you have a chance to talk to your embassy. I should warn you that if they had to pick between you being guilty and a member of this family being implicated, they would probably throw you in the frozen lake wearing your boots. You may think you know what power and influence mean, but here the ties are deep and strong.”
When she reached the end of the room she was surprised that no one had entered and decided she had imagined the door opening. She left Graves looking worried and wondered what had made her say such nonsense. He was probably telling the truth. The more likely scenario was for Felicity Cowell to kill him. She toyed with the idea. Felicity could have threatened him. Wasn’t a knife, like poison, a woman’s weapon? If they fought, he might have struck her when she turned. Maybe he killed her out of fear, or perhaps he slipped after he got the knife from her. Agnes rubbed her forehead and knew that, as unlikely as it was, the idea had to be considered.
Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Page 12