“Then you might guess that we were once a couple,” Marie-Chantal continued. “Call it what you will. In the end I wanted to paint him but not marry him. Perhaps on some level I wanted to be him. Daniel needs me. Julien doesn’t. He’s not selfish, it’s simply that he can stand alone.” She smiled sorrowfully at Agnes then, with a last look around the room, left.
Immediately Agnes felt the best piece of art had left the room. Then she wondered which part of the conversation was the most important. She had a suspicion that Marie-Chantal knew the impact she had on people; she would have to. Pulling her notebook from her handbag, Agnes checked her notes in the dim light. Marie-Chantal had left the marquise for some time during the afternoon of the murder to let Winston out into the courtyard. But he wasn’t a child. One couldn’t ask a Great Dane if she’d left him alone for a few minutes. Who would know? Was it possible Marie-Chantal was jealous of Felicity Cowell? Jealous of more than her professional life? Either a long-standing association or a spur-of-the-moment attraction between the dead woman and Daniel Vallotton that escalated into spousal rage? A flirtation gone too far? Marie-Chantal admitted to a strange kind of obsession with Julien, but possibly that was covering for her other obsession—an obsession with her husband.
Felicity Cowell had been attractive even in death. Beautiful in life. Just as Marie-Chantal was beautiful. Agnes tapped her pen on the desk’s edge. She took one last look around the workroom before blowing out the candle. She was left with a different sense of their victim and liked it. She hoped that put her in the right frame of mind to speak to Harry Thomason again. He might be suffering heartbreak, but her first concern had to be for the dead woman, no matter her real name.
Sixteen
Yet another beautiful room, was the first thought that occurred to Agnes when the housekeeper led her to Harry Thomason. In the past hour he had changed out of his heavy outdoor clothes into wool trousers, a linen shirt, and a cashmere sweater provided by the family. Incongruously, his feet were still in slippers, of the type Agnes associated with old men. Thomason looked tired and pale, but otherwise at ease in his surroundings. She knew from experience of death that words didn’t help so she skipped elaborate condolences.
Petit was already there, notebook in hand, waiting. Eager to avoid the appearance of a police inquisition she had asked Julien Vallotton to join her as well. At first he carried the conversation and Agnes was not surprised that his social skills were up to the awkwardness. He easily led the discussion toward the questions that had to be asked.
“You’ll meet my brother at dinner if you decide to join us. He’s walked that path you took by the lake, but I haven’t. Quite a distance, but nice enough in good weather; a feat after the storm.”
“I’m from a family of walkers,” Thomason replied. “We traipse around the moors near our home year-round; my mother is convinced a trek on rugged terrain is necessary before holiday dinners. From the hotel it was mostly flat. The ice was a challenge, but I was eager to see—” His eyes clouded and he struggled to maintain control of his emotions. “We hadn’t talked in a few days and I really wanted to see her.”
Vallotton rose and opened a cabinet then poured a beautiful golden brown liquid into two glasses. He inclined his head toward Agnes and she frowned a no, hoping Petit had the sense to decline. Her mind drifted to Marie-Chantal and the Vallotton brothers. How much jealousy lingered after she chose one over the other? Suspicions could easily turn into anger, then rage. On the other hand, they seemed to accept the strong undercurrents as part of life and relationships and she wondered: Had she missed the same between herself and George? Was there space in their lives for someone else?
After Thomason and Julien Vallotton had each taken a sip and commented favorably on the whiskey Vallotton continued, “You came down from the village? I’m curious to see how their recovery is proceeding. I can see some of the damage from our battlements.”
“I haven’t been to the village. I walked along the lake all the way from the hotel and then around the base of the cliff face.”
Petit stood in alarm. All remnants of color faded from Thomason’s face when the policeman explained that there was no path at the base of the cliff and Thomason must have walked on an ice shelf. Agnes shuddered and hoped that no one else had tried the same; the lake was deep and it would be a cold, watery grave. She caught Vallotton’s eye. This was a new problem: if Felicity Cowell’s killer left the property along the lake, he or she might already be dead. Petit would have to check the shoreline again. A fall through ice, a fall from a bridge. Both horrible ends.
“Dashed stupid, all week a disaster and then this end.” Thomason took another deep drink and steadied himself. “Maybe best if I had plunged through.”
Agnes knew that they would have to check Thomason’s story. They would also have to determine if the lake had frozen over early enough for someone to leave the property the day before. Petit and Blanchard could put their heads together over weather patterns and travel. For the moment, though, Thomason’s grief seemed real, but a killer could also feel or simulate emotion.
“This is painful, I know,” she said. “You knew her better than anyone and we need your assistance. Did she mention knowing anyone here? Had she been here before?”
“She hadn’t been to this part of Switzerland, and I told her to stay at the Beau-Rivage—that’s where the firm puts me up when I travel to the region—but she wanted to stay nearer her work. Couldn’t really blame her, what with the drive, and of course she would be just as comfortable onsite. For auctions of collections of this scale we often stay on the property, so it wasn’t out of the ordinary.”
Agnes felt sorry for the young man. He seemed to forget his fiancée’s death at the start of each sentence and remember it a second later. She wanted to tell him the feeling wouldn’t go away soon. Perhaps never. She lifted her hand to sniff George’s lotion. There it was again. A memory, stronger than anything a photograph or words could call to mind.
“I wonder if I could see her room, just to see where she was last,” Thomason said.
Focusing on Thomason required an effort. There was something important at the edge of her mind. “That’s another point we would like to ask you about. She decided to stay at a small hotel in the village. It’s not a bad place, but we were surprised by her decision. Any idea why she made this choice?”
For the first time Thomason seemed unsettled. He shrugged and swallowed a few times.
“Perhaps you have a sense of what she liked in a hotel,” Agnes said. “Maybe she thought the village inn was quaint or she liked her privacy.” Ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop talking. She wanted to comfort this young man and at the same time something didn’t seem right, she just couldn’t put her finger on the reason for her concern. He swallowed again and rubbed his palms on his pants’ legs.
“How did you two meet?” Agnes asked when he didn’t reply.
Thomason brightened. “At work. I’ve been with the firm for eight years, straight out of university, and we met the first week she joined, two years ago. I’m in philately. I do other things, but that’s my specialty, so we were fortunate to meet straight off.” He launched into a lengthy explanation of his work and the internal organization of the firm, how their offices were on different floors, and Agnes let him talk. Now she could identify her concern. There was authenticity in his answer, which meant that what he said previously wasn’t exactly the truth. She leaned forward and caught Vallotton’s glance. She needed a cigarette and he knew it. She met his raised eyebrow with a fixed smile and sat back on the sofa, fingers stilled under the edge of her skirt.
“When did you speak with her last?”
Thomason looked around the room. “Can I see her body? I want it to be buried at my family’s place. I think that’s what she’d want.”
“We can arrange for you to see her later. Right now I need to know more about the days before she died. We should be able to retrieve a record of her mobile phone calls tomor
row or the day after, but you may be able to help us now. Had her mood changed while she was here, or was she upset or worried about anything?”
“Why would she be upset? This job was an honor for her.” He nodded to Vallotton. “You’re important clients and for her to come here was exciting. Felicity worked hard. Harder than any of us and she was brilliant. You can’t imagine her memory. She never forgot a painting or face or name. I’m good at what I do, I’m industrious and enjoy it, but she was different. She was special.”
Agnes resisted the temptation to probe him about Felicity’s earlier life and other name. He might know, or Graves could have lied. Although she doubted it. As Vallotton said, Graves would know that they could verify his story soon. If she asked Thomason she couldn’t take the words back and he was so fragile. She remembered her own struggle with the details of George’s death. Questions about Felicity’s character could wait. Or could they? She glanced at Petit, sucking on the end of his pen, diligently taking notes. She wished Bardy was here.
Thomason smiled wanly. “We were both London outsiders. It’s a hard world to break into and that was part of what bound us together. London was our adopted home and we loved it and swore we would never leave.”
Carnet entered the room, stretching his hand out to greet Thomason. Agnes tried to stand, but her knees buckled. George, was all she could think.
“Monsieur Vallotton.” Madame Puguet appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”
Agnes knew that Julien Vallotton expected her to postpone the meal in order to finish questioning Thomason, but she couldn’t speak. With a backward glance he led the younger man out of the room. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain it was audible. How had she not guessed? Nausea threatened. She placed a hand on Carnet’s arm to stop him. With her other hand she pulled George’s small bottle of hand lotion from her pocket.
“Must have dropped it,” Carnet said, taking it from her. “My sister sends it from Australia. Some special concoction she pretends I need.”
Again she tried to stand but couldn’t. She couldn’t find her balance. Her legs wouldn’t bear her weight. “It was in my car. George put it there.” Silence stretched between them. “You didn’t even know George.”
She felt him go still, like an animal judging the risk of flight.
“I told you I met him once, at the shooting competition.”
“That was only a few minutes,” she said. “And this is yours. I smelled it just now on your hand when you reached for Thomason’s. It’s a distinctive aroma. Unique. You knew George much better than that, didn’t you?”
She raised her eyes to his and saw in them horror intermingled with truth. His mouth was open as if he was torn between speech and silence. He didn’t move until she finally stood.
“You told me the first night here that George loved me and the boys, as if you knew.”
“We met at the shooting match.”
“A few minutes doesn’t—”
His words overrode hers, tumbling out as if unstoppable. “We met there. It was the beginning.”
She wanted to tell him to stop, but couldn’t.
“I’d never felt that way before. We only spoke for a few minutes but he called me later and we met. Love at first sight, if you can believe it. And he felt the same. It only lasted a few weeks.”
Agnes calculated rapidly. Her skin was cold and clammy and she steadied herself against the edge of the table. Her mouth went dry and she felt her heart accelerate. She couldn’t breathe. “Three months,” she heard herself say.
“No, six weeks until I ended it. I couldn’t face what we were doing. I couldn’t live with myself. He was married. We had to hide every emotion. At work, I could see your face when he called, and I knew he was telling you he had to work late. And I would leave right after you and meet—”
Agnes felt the room tilt and her chest constrict. She held out a hand as if to stop him, half wondering if she was dreaming, but his mouth continued to move, saying these terrible things. These treacherous things. She had had so many strange dreams after George’s death that there was an element of repetition. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Her throat had closed.
“He called me, texted me, emailed,” Carnet continued, “but I wouldn’t see him. I thought this was the right thing to do. An abrupt break was necessary. I didn’t think about what he was going through. I didn’t let him reach out to me once I had made up my mind. I loved him but didn’t want him to ruin his life, ruin the way his boys thought of him, destroy you, and so I ended it.” His expression was one of total despair. “I never once, you have to believe me, never thought he would—”
“Kill himself over you.”
They looked at each other, mirror images of horror. Agnes broke the gaze first. Then she ran from the room.
Seventeen
“Nausea. No more nausea,” Agnes said, wiping her hand across her lips, feeling residual pain from the dry heaves flash across her ribs. She pressed a tissue to her eyes and dried her tears. For the first time she looked around. She had wandered far from where she started and it took a moment to orient herself. The furnishings came into focus and she leaned heavily against the open door. It was twice her height and intricately carved. The door swung back, striking the wall. She straightened and moved farther into the room, trying to not think. Shoving images from her mind as fast as they appeared. George. Carnet. George and the boys. George at the shooting match with Carnet. That final day under the Pont Bessières.
Herself with Robert Carnet. Working together. His deception. Her ignorance.
She pressed the tissue to her eyes again, staunching the flow of liquid, choking back another wave of bile, focusing on what was real right now. Trying to take in every detail, any detail, to think about something other than the unthinkable.
Carnet.
The end of her marriage. The end of George’s life.
The room was long, the length familiar. She was directly above the library. Overhead was a beautifully carved and painted ceiling. Beneath her feet was an elaborate parquet floor scattered with large Oriental rugs. She put a fist to her eyes and took a deep breath. Her mind was a whirl. An unproductive whirl. She had to stop thinking about him. About them. Her chest hurt and her heart ached. Literally ached.
There were five windows overlooking the lake. She picked the nearest and studied the view from it. The glass was partially coated with ice, and she used that to concentrate on the storm and its aftermath until that train of thought led to here … and to her discovery. If she hadn’t been trapped for two days with Carnet would he have told her about his affair with her husband or would she have continued in ignorance?
Despite the ice, moonlight streamed in and Agnes studied the outlines of the furnishings around her. A myriad of chairs and tables. She registered that they were completely draped in white cloth. It occurred to her that this was the condition of most of the rooms she had wandered through on this highest level of the château. Little used, but always ready for the family in case they needed another sitting room, or writing room or whatever room. Hidden knowledge, she thought, hardly knowing if she meant what was beneath the dust cloths or what had happened between her husband and her former boss. She rubbed her cheeks and looked for a mirror, certain her face was red and swollen.
Nearby a piece of cloth was draped over what looked like a large mirror. She pulled the fabric off with a hard yank. It slipped to the floor and she sighed. Not a mirror but an enormous oil painting of a seventeenth-century Vallotton in hunting garb. She tried another one, then another, not caring that someone would have to replace the covers. When all of the paintings were laid bare she paused. Still no mirror. She started on the tables. Obsessed now. Flinging cloth cover after cover to the floor. Abandoning the heaps of fabric as soon as they fell.
She uncovered tables laden with precious objects, chairs with deep silk cushions, and sofas with heavy tassels that brushed the floor. Sets of tapestried chairs. Two leather-covered
writing desks and a half dozen delicate tables that held porcelain figurines and ivory carvings and every imaginable curiosity.
Finally there was nothing left to expose. She looked down the length of the space. She was focused. The light was dim, but it was enough. She clicked on her flashlight and aimed it across the surface of the nearest table, leaning down to survey the polished wood at eye level. Then she glanced at the other tables and opened the nearest glass-fronted cabinet. She angled down to study the shelves. It was very faint, but despite the cloth covers there was a microscopic coating of dust. More important, under the focus of a beam of light there were barely discernible places with no dust. Neat circles and precise oblongs. Each the mark of a missing object.
She stood and corrected herself. Not necessarily missing, but not here. Moved? Taken to another room? Carried to a place where the pieces could be observed and appreciated? She retraced her path through the adjacent rooms. Each was filled with furniture similarly covered in dust cloths. Working quickly but more carefully now, she pulled the covers away and shone her light on the surfaces, looking for the telltale spots of absolute cleanliness. She counted thirty places before she stopped and considered her discovery.
She had noticed that the Vallottons liked to group their collections: five porcelain shepherdesses, twelve pocket watches under glass, a trio of alabaster vases. From what she could tell about the missing objects, they were unrelated in type. Usually one of a group was missing. Since groups or collections would have been removed together for display elsewhere it was unlikely the individual pieces were taken to another location in the château. And the thin film of dust. The staff seemed thorough. If the housekeeper or a maid removed an object they would dust the surface of the table at the same time.
Turning to leave the last of the rooms, she caught sight of herself in the glass of a cabinet and started. Even in a poor reflection her eyes looked irritated and swollen. A memory of George slipped through her mind. A Saturday early in their marriage when they had taken the train to Zürich and wandered the Bahnhofstrasse, window-shopping at the finest stores in the world. Stores that sold jewelry and the sort of objets d’art that the Vallottons would own. She remembered how George insisted they go inside and look at a miniature globe. How carefully he had handled the carved wood and how reverently he had set it down after learning the price—several years of his salary. She smiled. They had been honored to even hold the piece and see it in person. Now she wondered if he had walked that same street with someone else. Not Carnet, she was sure they hadn’t gone out in public together. But were there others? Other lovers. The idea chilled her. Then she remembered where she was. The Vallottons had likely been robbed, and rich or not, they wouldn’t be happy about it. She had a job to do.
Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Page 15