Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery

by Tracee de Hahn

  Agnes found the housekeeper hovering outside the dining room, monitoring dinner service for the family and their guests. Madame Puguet sniffed delicately and Agnes hoped she didn’t smell like vomit. She resisted covering her mouth. Quickly she conveyed her concerns about the missing objects.

  “Dust?” Madame Puguet said, as if Agnes had said there were rats chewing the upholstery.

  “Only the very faintest trace. Mere particles, but using a strong light it was possible to see that several objects had been removed.”

  Madame Puguet took a step back as if she’d been struck. Then, shoulders stiff, she led the way to investigate herself.

  One glance at the first tabletop and her eyes widened. She covered her mouth briefly, then seemed to gather her wits. “This should not have been taken away,” she said, moving her hand toward an empty area between a series of gem-encrusted silver cups.

  “Maybe a family member picked it up—” Agnes was silenced with a cold glance.

  “The family doesn’t pick objects up and carry them around.” Madame Puguet walked through the room, studying each table and cabinet as she passed. “I will make a list of the items for Monsieur Vallotton. He must be informed at once.”

  Eighteen

  Agnes paced the length of the sitting room, blowing into her hands and sniffing. She had gargled soap in a powder room, an action that had nearly made her sick again, but at least her breath was freshened. Insult to injury.

  Julien Vallotton arrived from the dinner table. Agnes glanced down at her wrinkled skirt and compared her disheveled appearance to his immaculate garb.

  “You should have joined us, or at least eaten,” he said, gesturing to the platter of salmon, tomato, and shrimp canapés thoughtfully provided by the kitchen. “The others enjoyed themselves. Officer Petit is awash with enthusiasm about his new son.”

  “You’ve been burglarized,” she said.

  Vallotton waited for her to continue and for a moment she wanted someone different opposite her, someone who would jump up and start waving his hands in anger. Or show any emotion. She needed a distraction. Any reminder of George and her stomach threatened to heave.

  “It’s a lot of things,” she added.

  Madame Puguet entered the room, clearing her throat delicately. “The list is hasty, but I think it conveys the scope.” She handed a piece of paper covered in her precise handwriting to Vallotton. The housekeeper looked pale and grim and Agnes realized she was taking the discovery hard. Madame Puguet started to speak, hesitated, and silently left the room.

  Vallotton glanced at the paper. “You discovered this now?”

  “I’m here to work. I spent dinner checking the rooms again. I was curious.”

  “You were curious the first time you walked through the property.”

  “I was looking for something different then.” No need to tell him she was looking for evidence of violence the first time and for a distraction the second.

  He read the list again.

  “Nothing looks disturbed. I had to look carefully.” She leaned forward. “There was dust under the cloths. Just a trace, but that’s how I noticed the items were missing.”

  Vallotton tapped his leg absently.

  “We will find out who did this,” Agnes said.

  “You think the theft is linked to Felicity Cowell’s death?”

  “I don’t know. Madame Puguet said the items might have disappeared long ago.”

  “An inventory was made when my father died. Everything. That was two years ago. But since then, she’s correct. There are rooms we never venture into and the furnishings remain covered to protect them.”

  “I don’t think it’s been two years. Weeks or months I’d believe, but not years. Someone in the lab could tell us how long it takes dust to settle through fabric, or drift up along the edges, but I’m sure it happens.” Agnes looked around the luxurious furnishings of the room they were seated in. “The protection is mainly from light, isn’t it? You know some dust will gather. The furniture isn’t sealed, it’s simply hidden.”

  Vallotton set the list on the table between them. “Before this, were you still hoping I would turn up guilty?”

  She ignored him. “Tonight changes things, or at least it might.” She scanned the list of stolen objects. “They’re all portable.”

  “Not just portable, small,” Vallotton added. “Nothing larger than fifty centimeters in length. Easy to quickly put everything into a few duffel bags and off you go.”

  “You think this was the work of one night … or day?”

  “You think differently?”

  “I don’t want to make an assumption and forget the alternatives. How easy would it be for someone to come in and leave with these things?”

  “If you had asked me two days ago I would have reminded you we live in a fortress. My entire childhood was spent preoccupied by the safety and boredom of this place. We used to walk on the outer edge of the battlements for a thrill; of course they are nearly a meter wide so it’s not exactly tightrope walking. Clearly my perception has changed. As you know, we don’t have a security system, but there are limited points of entry and you can’t come in through a window or the roof without some trouble. Besides that, you would be visible for miles. You can’t tell with the power out, but we illuminate the lakeside façade at night, special request of the bureau of tourism. Made my father sick, but he did it anyway. Come over the roof or down the walls to the windows at night and half of France would notice you in silhouette.”

  “I’ll assume you haven’t stolen from yourself to collect the insurance, but what about the people who live here and work here?”

  “You might say we are self-insured, but to your other point, someone we know stealing from us, I really don’t think—”

  “You didn’t think anyone would be murdered here either. Strip away what you want to believe and tell me who might steal. Now is the time to admit that a dear relative is a kleptomaniac.”

  “That would be a relief,” Vallotton said. “Discovering Aunt Antoinette has an Achilles’ heel.” He stood and walked around the room, occasionally touching something. Agnes was reminded that every table was filled with precious objects: a small Corot on a stand with postcards tilted in front, a sketch by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec in a sterling silver frame. Things so valuable even she recognized their worth. She smiled at what she would have to describe to her boys when she saw them. Then George sprang to mind and tears welled.

  Vallotton looked at her sharply. “Surely I should be more upset than you?”

  She swallowed. “I know you don’t want to think someone in the household stole from you, but we need to consider everyone. Starting with the staff.”

  “I would start with family and friends, easier for us to sell the pieces.”

  “Then family first.”

  “You think of everything here as mine, and I suppose technically you are correct, but we don’t see it that way. I may be the steward, but the château and its furnishings are ours collectively. Since the death of my father, that means me, my brother, my aunt, and MC. If any one of us wanted something—particularly these small things—all they need to do is take it. We keep good records, so it would be nice to know that it was moved or sold, but no one would care.”

  “How is that possible? These objects are valuable. You have to care if someone took them.”

  Vallotton stopped and opened a drawer. Agnes stood to see what he indicated. “You have to be joking,” she said. The drawer was fitted with felt to hold coins. Heavy antique coins. Vallotton lifted the covering and held one out to her. It was a dull rich gold.

  “My father loved his coins and stamps. We played with them as boys, not carelessly, but with an interest. Handle the pieces, learn about them, enjoy them. That’s why we collect, to give the things life. I would rather a piece be broken—or stolen—if that’s the exchange for living amongst them.”

  She took a different coin and held it up to the candlelight. “A cras
s question, but how much is this worth?”

  Vallotton leaned near to examine it. “Good selection. Priceless.”

  Agnes dropped the coin back into its tray. “A meaningless sentiment.”

  “No, a literal word. If there is one known example of something that cannot be re-created then how can you assess a value? If it is lost, then no price can bring it back. Like the loss of a person, each one unique. Priceless.”

  Agnes rubbed her forehead. “Ralph Mulholland, Madame Puguet, and the rest of the staff. They aren’t your family. They might take something.”

  He laughed. “Have you spent any time with Josette Puguet? She is devoted to us. My father left her a legacy. Enough for her to retire to the South of France and hire her own housekeeper. But she wouldn’t dream of leaving.”

  “And Mulholland?”

  “That’s a question for my aunt, but I doubt he would insult her with such behavior. Besides, his parents left him an orphan and he’s old enough to have control of his inheritance. And I don’t think any of the staff would steal from us. What would they do with the things? Hard to dispose of if you don’t have a connection with an auction house and proof of ownership for whatever you are selling. The items on your list are no ordinary trinkets. Someone needs a connection to the black market. A professional.”

  “Then we’re left with someone—a professional—walking in the front door and leaving undetected.” Agnes didn’t say that she could easily have pocketed a few valuables. She remembered what the marquise had said about Estanguet that first night. Strangers wandering her halls like a hotel. “Or someone who took the pieces for another reason. Sentiment maybe? No interest in selling, but they like the looks of them and want to own them?”

  Vallotton frowned. “Possible. And it’s also possible someone wandered in. We no longer have the large staff that my father kept. His butler retired when he died. The man kept an eagle eye on the comings and goings and there was more live-in help. My aunt manages things differently. Although to walk in brazenly would suggest someone who knew they could move about freely with little chance of detection, and they would have to know their way around or risk running into someone.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Agnes looked again at the list. “How much do you think the things on this list are worth?”

  “Hard to tell. Several pieces could go for a good sum to the right buyer or at auction. But fenced on the black market the amount would be lower. Maybe you’re right and they were taken for how they looked, or sentimental reasons. It is a bit odd that the pieces are valuable but not excessively so.”

  “There is another answer: Felicity Cowell.” At his sharp look Agnes hesitated and pulled at the hem of her skirt. “Hear me out. She is the victim no matter what else we learn, but she was knowledgeable. Her employers say this, you agree, and her fiancé says she had an incredible breadth of knowledge. A breadth that stretched beyond the paintings and sculpture you are considering selling. Add to this we now know she didn’t come from money. What if she arrived and the lure of such disposable wealth tempted her? Maybe this explains why she didn’t want to sleep at the château.”

  “A premeditated crime?”

  “I wondered if she didn’t stay here because the room she was shown was so isolated. Then when we met Thomason, I thought she wanted somewhere private so he could join her at night. He might have been embarrassed to tell us. Now I wonder if there was a different reason. She recognized the possibilities. Madame Puguet told me she gave Felicity a complete tour the day of her arrival. To orient her, I suppose.”

  “More likely to size her up. Josette is very proprietorial about us.”

  “Either way she had a chance straightaway to see that many rooms were unoccupied, and that might have planted the seed and caused her to change her mind and stay in the village. She could take a few things each day in a briefcase or purse.”

  “And hide them in her hotel room?”

  “We will look into it but she wouldn’t have kept them there. No one disputes that she was very clever. She would have stashed the objects somewhere else.”

  Vallotton wound a clock absently. “This is becoming a bit farfetched. She’s unfamiliar with the village, with the entire area, yet comes up with a place to store valuables not in her hotel room or workplace. Someplace safe where she has access without a car. I’m not sure I could do that and I’ve lived here my entire life.”

  “Maybe it was premeditated. She could have an accomplice who took the goods.”

  “Unfortunately, this makes more sense.”

  “And they have an argument and she dies.” They sat back and looked at each other. “It’s a strong hypothesis,” Agnes admitted reluctantly. “When Graves told me the woman he knew admitted to doing whatever it took to survive I assumed prostitution.”

  “Makes sense; you knew she was taking her clothes off for money.”

  “But maybe she also stole? Harry Thomason could be her accomplice and we only have his word for their relationship. She never mentioned a fiancé and didn’t wear a ring.”

  “A classic return to the scene of the crime?” Vallotton half laughed. “Doubtful.”

  “Maybe this is how he is leaving the crime scene. How do we know he spent last night at the Beau-Rivage? That’s a long way from here. He could have met her yesterday afternoon and they had an argument. She dies and he panics. The theft was a perfect crime, years spent looking at valuables and not having them yourself. Needing just a bit more to buy a first flat as a married couple. Something goes wrong at the end. Maybe she gets cold feet. Something triggers an argument and he strikes in the heat of anger or he has planned it all along and lures her outside. He starts to leave but the storm catches him.”

  “He didn’t spend the night outdoors,” Vallotton said. “It was bitter and he’d be near dead dressed like he was. That was cold weather gear, but not suited for sustained low temperatures.”

  “Not outside but somewhere close. The garage? Pick a big old sedan and you’d be quite comfortable, he might even turn on a car for extra warmth. Or the Orangerie? Warm enough to save the plants. More ice falls and the next day he pretends he’s just arrived.”

  “Another suspect, and this time you have a motive.”

  “Yes, and it isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be.”

  Nineteen

  It took the butler three minutes to open the door but it felt like three hours.

  “Could have waited until morning,” Petit said, teeth still chattering as they followed the man deeper into the mansion. Agnes wasn’t about to tell him that the theft was only an excuse to escape the château. It was claustrophobic with Carnet somewhere within the walls. He couldn’t leave, though she was certain he wanted to, and she was worried that he would seek her out; try to talk about George and what had happened. Try to explain. She shuddered at the thought.

  “You think he’ll let us look around?” Petit whispered. Agnes wished she’d told him to find a bottle of champagne and take it to bed to celebrate fatherhood alone. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when he offered to accompany her.

  Vladimir Arsov received them like a potentate welcoming foreign ambassadors, dismissing any notion of theft with a negligent wave of one hand and offering wine and food with a second wave toward the butler. When they refused refreshments, he suggested a tour of the formal rooms of the mansion. Petit took the handles of the wheelchair from Nurse Brighton and Agnes lit the way with her flashlight, deciding that this qualified as a distraction.

  The doors of the lakeside ground-floor rooms were aligned along a single axis, an enfilade that ran the length of the mansion providing a vista through each room. As they walked, Petit asked a hundred questions while Arsov pointed out details of interest, waving a bony finger in vague directions. Agnes wished the light was stronger. Much of the detail was obscured by the darkness: an amber screen belonging to the Romanovs, Marie Antoinette’s writing desk, Ming vases. Occasionally a servant crossed their path, a pale fac
e illuminated by a flashlight or candle, but mostly they walked alone through the vast gilded rooms.

  “The marquise,” Arsov said, motioning to the large portrait of a young woman next to an even larger portrait of a man draped in a lion skin.

  “Beautiful,” Agnes murmured, aiming her flashlight in the direction indicated. The painting was a duplicate of the one Marie-Chantal had shown her in the château. Here the frame was as impressive as the art. She estimated the weight of the frame and canvas and wondered how they held it to the wall. She could barely keep a lightweight photo from falling to the floor in her house.

  They returned to the main salon to find several hundred candles had been lit and placed on every available surface. “I was tired of the dark,” Arsov remarked. When they were seated near the fireplace he looked from Agnes to Petit. “You didn’t come here on a cold night to tell me I may have been robbed.”

  “Yes, we did,” Petit said.

  “Young man, I have never said such stupid things. Oh, maybe when I was very young. And you”—Arsov waved toward Agnes—“if he is too eager, you are too worried. Maybe you will make a good team. It is possible.” He shrugged and adjusted the tube leading to his oxygen tank, snorting in air.