Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery

by Tracee de Hahn

  “Didn’t someone recognize Citoyen and realize he was Madame’s husband?” Agnes asked. “Of course the Germans weren’t locals. They wouldn’t have known him.”

  “He should not have been recognizable by the local platoon, but Madame knew that the Germans were thorough. They document and we knew that.” Arsov paused. “That is why there were two shots. The first, his, instant death. The second was Madame’s into his face. She destroyed his features.” His fingers curled until his hands were tight fists. “I have never met a woman like Madame before or since. I was at first deceived by her elegance and manner, but beneath this calm disinterest was a woman who was deeply interested and unafraid to act. She would never have let him die in vain.”

  Agnes was afraid to breathe, to do anything to disturb the quiet of the room. Some ways off Petit laughed loudly and, although the nurse shushed him, the spell was broken.

  “Who are Citoyen and Madame?” asked Agnes. “Their real names.”

  “Have you ever had a secret, Inspector, a real life-and-death secret? I have had these secrets, secrets between two people, and the release does not necessarily come with death. Le Citoyen and Madame separately gave me a chance at life. He gave me France and she introduced me to my love. I will never forget this or stop serving them.”

  Agnes waited silently for a few minutes. Arsov was asleep. The nurse approached and nodded. He was old and needed his rest. They would go.

  Twenty

  Agnes jolted awake at the sound of footsteps. She was seated in the dark shadows of the château’s library. Most of the candles had long since guttered and the fires were banked for the night.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said, embarrassed when she saw the figure in front of her. “I wanted a book to read,” she added inconsequently.

  Marie-Chantal held her finger to her lips and motioned toward Mimi, who was nestled deep into the seat of a wing-backed chair. “She was put to bed hours ago and when I checked she’d gotten up again. She is incorrigible.” She studied the sleeping figure. “It’s almost a shame to wake her, though.”

  A shadow flickered across the fireplace and Estanguet emerged from the dark. He lifted his hand from the candle he was shielding and the glow extended across Mimi. “I can carry her for you,” he said. Sleepily, Agnes decided that he could re-take his title of Good Samaritan.

  While he gathered the girl, Marie-Chantal looked at Agnes doubtfully. “If you were looking for a book there are better ones, to read I mean, in the blue sitting room. That’s where we keep the ordinary books.”

  Agnes stretched and stood, wishing them goodnight. She had come here for a book. She must have fallen asleep the moment she sat in the deeply cushioned chair. Running her flashlight beam down the shelves she wondered if she should take one now. It wasn’t clear how the volumes were organized. By language? Or subject? There was a section in Latin, another in Greek. She knew that she was too tired to read, yet now she wasn’t sure she could fall asleep again. The sense of peace she had felt at Arsov’s had vanished during the cold return to the château, and she was further unsettled by Petit’s prattling happiness, his boundless joy at the newness of fatherhood.

  She walked the length of the library, delaying the inevitable return to her room and the numbing loneliness that visited her most nights. She’d read about spouses committing suicide after their partners died and had thought that was only for the old and the weak. But this—this despair was rooted so firmly she finally understood how the mind closed options until there was only one. The numbness was as painful as the aching of her heart.

  Her light flashed across a bronze bust and the craggy features reminded her of Arsov. She studied the man’s deep-set eyes and wondered why Arsov’s story hadn’t filled her with the sense of longing and despair that Petit’s mindless jabbering had. As she walked toward the doors she wondered if it was because even in Arsov’s happiness there was a shadow of despair. Just as his despair was filled with the joy of living. She was sure he would have said it was his Russian soul, but there was something more. Some balance that she hadn’t yet grasped. Perhaps the tragedy he had known during the war had colored his happiness as her own tragedy would certainly color her future. Was it about acknowledging the worst that could happen? Was that enough? Arsov and Madame had lived through the worst that a human could endure and woke the next day and the next. Was that all it took?

  Inside her bedroom she closed the door and leaned against it. Unbidden, a sob erupted. She wept for herself and for George until she was wrung dry of any feeling. She felt the hours pass, half-awake and half-asleep. Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed and she counted the bells. It was late, or early, depending on one’s perspective. Wiping her eyes, she looked around and relit a candle. She had difficulty focusing: Had she heard a noise or was she dreaming? What had she dreamt? A tapping sound? She couldn’t remember, and that made her think she had heard something.

  The curtains were closed against the cold and only a thin sliver of moonlight darted through the folds, but it was enough to see by. She sat up in bed with the blanket clutched to her throat, wishing she had checked the walls for hidden entrances. The cold air stimulated her senses and she leapt up, angry with herself. Swiftly she walked to the window and threw back the heavy curtains, scanning the lawn for signs of someone causing mischief, but the moonlit acres were empty. Trying to visualize what was above and below her room she heard a noise, a slow thump, thump right outside her door. She crossed the room in five long steps and flung the door open. The marquise stood in the middle of the corridor, her expression severe. She hesitated slightly when she saw Agnes.

  “I wanted to check the fire in Mimi’s room. There’s always danger with a fire at night.”

  Agnes wanted to add, yes but it keeps you warm. There certainly wasn’t a fire lit in her room.

  “She has a Kachelofen.”

  Agnes nearly smiled. She had forgotten the marquise’s ability to read minds. She had seen a few of the ceramic stoves over the years. Tall structures, wonderfully warm by all accounts. And not dangerous to leave lit unattended. She started to ask the marquise if she knew anything of Arsov’s past when the other woman spoke.

  “Does Mademoiselle Cowell have any siblings?”

  “None that her fiancé knew of. Or Nick Graves.”

  “The American student,” the marquise said, the tone in her voice causing Agnes to believe what Julien Vallotton said about the woman not meeting anyone new, ever. “This evening Julien told me that Mademoiselle Cowell had another name.”

  “Courtney Cowell, we believe,” said Agnes.

  The marquise stood as silent as a statue, so still she didn’t appear to breathe. “Interesting to keep a surname but change the Christian name.”

  “Easier to get new paperwork, you can call yourself by almost any nickname you want and make it semi-official, but a surname is harder to fix.”

  “Unless you are adopted or married.”

  “She’s a bit old for adoption, but she could have formally petitioned to change her name if she’d wanted. Maybe she had.”

  “Is Monsieur Estanguet still here? I do not know that name. He is not from the village, is he?”

  “We’re all still here, I’m afraid. Impossible for anyone to be evacuated. And Monsieur Estanguet is from Estavayer-le-Lac. He’s got the farthest to go. Probably wishes he’d not bothered to help us down the hill now.”

  The marquise glanced toward Mimi’s room.

  “She’s handling this well. Better than some adults might,” Agnes said, thinking about Estanguet.

  “The mind of a child is difficult to understand,” said the marquise. “Their fears. Their concerns. Adults lie, conceal, pretend, but they do it for reasons that can be deduced through logic. Children have imaginations that cannot separate fantasy from reality. To them a fairy story is real. Just as real as a story about something that happened outside their door. They lose that as they mature, but for a time their mind is open. As adults we clo
se ours.”

  “Perhaps that’s why Mimi isn’t traumatized.”

  “You are very concrete, whereas I was speaking in larger terms.” Without another word the marquise walked silently toward the stairs.

  A bit affronted, Agnes stepped back into her room. She settled in bed and listened. Nothing. She glanced at the walls and wondered if there was a concealed door, trying to summon the will to search. She closed her eyes, too tired to get up. Unbidden, an image crept into her consciousness: Carnet and George. She shuddered slightly then she laughed, a sound tinged with hysteria. Their relationship defied imagination, and if it weren’t for the naked emotion she had seen on Carnet’s face, she would have believed it more likely to be a story he concocted to alleviate her self-blame. The idea that George had fallen in love with Carnet, enough in love that he couldn’t live without him, would have sounded ridiculous only a few hours earlier, but in the depths of the night, after exhausting herself of any other emotion, she knew that it was possible. And that she could accept it. Her husband had not died because of her, but because of himself. She took a deep breath. When did the sequence of events start or stop? Did it start with that fateful day at the shooting match? She had cajoled George into going, even though he had promised to take their youngest son fishing. Was this sequence of events punishment for her selfishness? What would have changed if he hadn’t met Carnet? Would it have been merely another man on another day? And what if Carnet hadn’t cared who was hurt by their actions: she and George would have divorced, their boys and his parents not understanding. Her parents-in-law were too much a part of the old customs of their village and way of life to have accepted homosexuality, even if the law did. Their instinct would have been to cut George from their lives, and then what of her, of the boys? Reminders. Still to blame, surely.

  Rubbing her eyes to stop the tears, Agnes understood that at some deep level she was thankful that George had chosen to die because of what he couldn’t have, and not because of what she couldn’t give him. Now she could see the impossible situation he faced. He knew what his parents would think if they found out about Carnet, but to have found love and lost it was equally heart-wrenching. He must have felt that he was in a dark hole with no way out. The Lüthis would never have accepted that their son was gay. And he had already lost the man he loved. Imperceptibly a burden lifted from her heart. She rolled over, wrapping herself in the down cover, embracing the weight of sleep.

  DAY THREE

  Twenty-one

  The sun was well over the horizon, although Agnes wouldn’t have guessed it from the temperature outside. Squinting against the sun, she focused on keeping her footing. The lane between the château and the mansion was coated with a layer of thick ice partially covered by a more recent crust of snow. It required steady nerves and luck to traverse. To keep her mind off falling, she silently debated gloved hands in-pockets or out-of-pockets. Out-of-pockets won as more conducive to catching herself during a tumble.

  Much of the focus was an effort to ignore André Petit sliding along beside her. Now that he was a father, he was a squirting fountain of questions on parenting. If parenting hadn’t reminded her of George she wouldn’t have minded. Today that was a topic she had to avoid. Anything that reminded her of George or her children would take her down the dark path of questions and regret. Therefore she tuned Petit out. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice. Rhetorical questions, apparently.

  They’d chosen to walk to Arsov’s on the lane rather than cross the lawn. A plan better in theory than in practice since it was quickly apparent that ice coating a hard surface was slicker than ice on grass. Only forty-eight hours after the storm began and she wanted to banish winter forever.

  “Do you think Monsieur Carnet is safe on his own?”

  Petit’s question jolted Agnes back to attention.

  “Of course he is.” She toned down her annoyance midsentence, replaying breakfast in her mind. Afraid that Carnet would seek her out, she had latched onto Petit as a natural buffer. Unfortunately she had told him that they shouldn’t be alone because of the murderer. She should have told him he had to stick by her side so she could evaluate him before sending a recommendation to the cantonal police with his application. It was too late to change her story now.

  “Carnet’s experienced and capable,” she said. “He’ll be fine.”

  “I understand. I’ll stay close to protect you.”

  Not what she had in mind, the image of the weak inspector. Perhaps not too late to change her story.

  “What’s that?” Petit halted, slamming his arm out across her chest. She stumbled and nearly fell, holding on to him for support. Only when she was steady did she hear the noise. Pounding? A man shouting?

  “The ice house,” they said together, veering off the drive toward the low building set halfway into the earth beneath them. Petit fell, sliding down the gentle slope to land in front of the façade. Agnes careened inelegantly into the side of the structure where it emerged from the hill, grasping the corner in a final attempt to stay upright. When her feet were firmly placed under her, she could hear the noise clearly.

  “Someone’s locked in,” she said.

  “The evidence,” Petit said.

  “The body,” she echoed, moving forward. Petit blocked her.

  “This could be the murderer.”

  “No, it’s Ralph Mulholland.” She didn’t add: who could be the murderer. Mulholland wasn’t an armed maniac. Or was he?

  “Monsieur Mulholland,” she called out over his screams.

  Petit rapped a fist on the locked door a couple times. The shouting stopped.

  “Monsieur Mulholland?” Agnes repeated loudly.

  “About fucking time.”

  Definitely Mulholland. She wished she could leave him. Instead, she searched through her pockets for the key Doctor Blanchard had turned over to her. The lock opened easily and Mulholland fell out of the doorway, gasping like a fish on a hook. He was wrapped in a dozen old flour sacks topped by a large canvas tarp. He was shaking violently.

  “Oh my god, I thought I was going to die in there,” he said.

  Petit briskly rubbed the other man’s arms but Mulholland shoved him away. Agnes wondered if he’d been attacked. She pulled her flashlight from her coat pocket and stepped cautiously into the squat wood building, running the beam from corner to corner. No one there. However, the door leading to the actual ice storage room was open. She glanced inside. No one.

  Once she was certain she was alone, she swung her light to the table. What she had observed peripherally now horrified her. The canvas covering Felicity Cowell’s body was missing—claimed by Mulholland. The Mylar blanket was askew, and a startling white leg was exposed. Agnes hurried back to the entrance to give Mulholland a piece of her mind, stopping only when she took another look at him. Accusations would have to wait. He was in distress.

  She grabbed the spare Mylar blanket from the floor and handed it to Petit to wrap around the other man. Hesitating, she handed over her borrowed hat as well.

  “Fucking cold, nobody around. Dark as pitch.” Mulholland turned his face to the sun as if there was warmth to be captured. “Trapped in there with … that.” He waved his hand toward the room.

  If he could speak he wasn’t in immediate danger although he was clearly cold, tired, and angry. Agnes wanted answers now.

  “You’ve disturbed our evidence, the body—”

  “You think I was there on purpose? Oh my god, I think I’ve got frostbite. I can’t feel my fingers. My nose.”

  His hands were scraped and shredded from pounding on the doorway. Beneath the flour sacks and Mylar blanket he was wearing a suit and tie. Dressed for dinner? His voice was hoarse, his eyes were hollow, and he looked exhausted.

  “How did you get locked in there?” she asked.

  Mulholland tightened the Mylar blanket around his chest, eyes closed and mouth open, taking long deep breaths. “Kitchen pantry. Door shut behind me and I knew no one would hear
me shout. I had to keep going. Finally there was a slope up and I came out into this room. Pitch-dark. There wasn’t anywhere else to go. This was the end. Knew I’d walked a long way but I’d lost track of direction and I could have been anywhere. Under the château, in the château. At Arsov’s. Then I felt her. It was cold. I kept screaming but no one came. I knew you’d check on her eventually and had to stay if I wanted to be found.”

  “What door shut behind you?”

  “Under the kitchen. The pantry.”

  “Inspector Lüthi!” Marie-Chantal Vallotton walked briskly across the lawn, dressed as if for a Vogue photo shoot: thigh-high outdoor boots, blond knee-length coat of curly lamb with matching hat. Enormous sunglasses. Agnes glanced down to her own rumpled clothes, wondering if she should remind everyone she’d been wearing the same skirt, blouse, and jacket for three days.