Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery

by Tracee de Hahn

  “Have you seen Mimi?” Marie-Chantal asked.

  “Not this morning,” Agnes said, eyeing the cuts on Mulholland’s hands. They would need to be treated.

  “She’s missing.”

  Agnes turned toward Marie-Chantal. She felt sick. She’d told Petit they were in danger without really believing it.

  “Hiding, at Arsov’s most likely.” Marie-Chantal looked at Mulholland. “Ralph, what are you wearing? You look ill. Is that why we didn’t see you after dinner?”

  “You’ve been here since last night?” Agnes asked.

  He nodded, shivering, teeth chattering.

  “André, get him inside,” she said, motioning toward Petit. “He needs medical attention.”

  Petit gave her a deliberate look, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. “Maybe we should stick together. You could come back with me.”

  She tried to hide her exasperation. “Go. Madame Vallotton will walk with me to Monsieur Arsov’s. And ask Doctor Blanchard to come out here and make sure everything is … in order. Return the key to him.”

  Petit glanced up and down Marie-Chantal and apparently decided she wasn’t a murderess. He took Mulholland’s arm and steered him to the château.

  Marie-Chantal removed her sunglasses and peered through the doorway into the ice house. “Ralph spent the night out here? He always seemed reckless, but he must be mad.”

  Agnes crossed to the inner room. There was a wide walkway leading around a pit and she peered down. She shone her light in, estimating it was five meters deep. At the bottom was a rotting wooden ladder lying on traces of straw. Clearly this was where the blocks of ice were stored before modern refrigeration. A quarter way around the pit a door led off the walkway. Carefully, she eased her way toward it, questioning the wisdom of allowing Petit to leave. She heard the click of heels behind her and drew a sharp breath. Then she exhaled calmly.

  There wasn’t any danger here.

  “Mulholland came up through this tunnel,” she said over her shoulder, glad her voice didn’t shake. “One we didn’t know about.” She allowed a little anger to creep in.

  The door was sturdy. She opened it and peered inside. A long hallway sloped downward, disappearing into inky darkness. She thought through the trajectory. A straight line would lead to the château. A point in Mulholland’s favor. Still, someone would have to go down and inspect the length of it. But not now. And not alone.

  The implications were serious. Was the ice house locked before they used it to store Felicity Cowell’s body? If not, then it was a perfect point of access and escape for their killer. She stood back from the door, studying it. It was built of rough timber, as were the walls of the room. She swung the door closed. There was no visible handle or hinges and it bolted from the tunnel side, which made sense to keep intruders out. Surveying the wall she admitted that the door was only evident when open. Blanchard and Petit wouldn’t have seen it when they checked the room before leaving the body.

  “The tunnel runs to the kitchen,” Marie-Chantal said, her voice echoing in the enclosed space.

  Agnes shone her flashlight beam directly into the other woman’s face. Marie-Chantal blocked the light with her hand and her diamond engagement ring reflected thousands of points of light across the walls. Agnes moved the beam.

  “For staff to bring ice inside,” Marie-Chantal continued. “The small door to the lawn that you’ve been using is new. They have been carving ice sculpture here for over a hundred years.” She stopped. “You’re not interested in that.”

  Agnes shook her head pointedly and motioned Marie-Chantal out. “Why didn’t someone tell us about this way in?”

  “I didn’t know about it. But now that I see it, I know what it is. There’s a similar pathway at my parents’ place in France.”

  Agnes resisted a tart comment. In the outer room she hazarded a glance at Felicity Cowell, thankful only a leg was visible. She would leave re-covering the body to the doctor. He could determine if anything important had been disturbed. At a glance it looked like Mulholland had stumbled past the table, searching for a way out. He had grappled for something to warm himself, then likely stayed as far from the corpse as possible once he realized where he was. If he was telling the truth and was in the room by accident, then he’d spent a bad night. Cold, dark, and in the company of a dead body. If he’d come in on purpose to tamper with evidence and had gotten locked inside, then too bad.

  Agnes closed the door behind them, making sure the lock caught.

  “Mimi?” she asked, temporarily leaving the question of Mulholland aside.

  “Hiding,” Marie-Chantal said. “She’s sweet, but likes to hide. Not always hiding exactly, but she likes the empty rooms, the attics, the cupboards. We have to search her out. One time I counted nineteen staircases while I was looking. Who knew? I was exhausted.”

  “You’re sure she’s only hiding? She hasn’t—” Agnes didn’t want to voice her fears.

  “It’s a constant battle. Not really a battle, we humor her. Every once in a while she stays hidden for a long time—overnight even—and it is annoying.”

  “Why are you out here looking for her?”

  “She’s at Monsieur Arsov’s half the time. More than half actually, and with the cold she shouldn’t have walked over alone. Leaving the château on her own has to be stopped. Nanny Egger usually keeps her in line, but since she’s frozen in somewhere else, it falls to me. Inconvenient that most of the staff had the day off when the ice arrived.”

  Agnes turned toward the mansion and Marie-Chantal followed her. “It is okay if I accompany you, isn’t it? You seemed so serious, Inspector. I thought perhaps I was interfering in police business. Of course with Ralph trapped in that place…”

  “I had a note from Monsieur Arsov this morning, asking me to pay him a visit. One of his servants brought it over. I suspect he wants to be updated.”

  “Not used to waiting,” Marie-Chantal agreed, picking her way elegantly across the ice.

  Agnes studied the other woman’s technique but it looked impossible, although perhaps the high heels helped, spiking into the ice with each step.

  “I shouldn’t say that,” Marie-Chantal continued. “Monsieur Arsov is lovely. Now my father, there’s a man unused to waiting. With Monsieur Arsov there is something charming.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “No, I’m embarrassed to admit. I should visit more than I do. He comes to tea or dinner about once a month—Antoinette makes a big production occasionally—but there are other guests and we don’t talk about personal matters. He’s very private.”

  Agnes shot Marie-Chantal a glance. She would have described Arsov as gregarious, in the manner of an old man used to getting his way and controlling the conversation. He’d talked easily enough the day before.

  “He told me a little about his time in the Second World War,” she said.

  “Really?” said Marie-Chantal. “He’s never said a word about his past to me, or to anyone as far as I know. It’s all business, business. Not as emphatically as others; that’s what makes him charming. But still, business. The dollar versus the franc, the pound versus the yen. Boring, but there’s something in how he talks. As if he really doesn’t care about the money.” She turned to Agnes. “That’s it. He can out-think the others but I wonder if he isn’t laughing at them.” She smiled. “No matter, let’s hope Mimi is driving him mad this morning. He gives her hot chocolate until she’s sick. We pretend we don’t know. You have to feel sorry for her, an orphan living with us in this big lonely place. I knew her parents and I suppose they knew what was best when they named Daniel’s father her guardian in their will. Of course, they didn’t think they’d die before him. Mimi needs some fun. She needs to be spoiled.”

  When they reached the mansion, Arsov’s butler hadn’t seen Mimi. However, he admitted that one of the other servants had attended the door for some time that morning. Marie-Chantal kept up a stream of chatter. “We wouldn’t norm
ally call this early but with Mimi vanished—”

  “What’s this about Mimi?” Arsov demanded as they crossed the threshold into the large salon. His wheelchair was pulled near a table laden with breakfast foods. Agnes smelled hot scones and eyed the silver coffeepot wishfully. Her own breakfast seemed hours ago.

  “Madame Puguet is convinced Mimi was stolen from her bed last night,” Marie-Chantal said, pulling off her gloves. “She disappeared, vanished, and no one knows what happened. I’m here to ask if she wandered—”

  “Stop,” Agnes said, moving swiftly past her.

  Arsov was pale, his expression vacant, and he seemed to no longer hear them. They reached him together and Marie-Chantal knelt and patted his face lightly. Agnes looked over her shoulder for the butler but the man had disappeared.

  “He didn’t faint,” she said, pushing Marie-Chantal away. She put her ear to the old man’s chest. “He’s breathing naturally, but his color’s worsening. I think he’s had a stroke.” Arsov slipped forward, a small leather book tumbling from his lap. Agnes caught the book and shoved it into her pocket, supporting Arsov on her shoulder. He felt as frail as a baby bird. His breath on her neck was a faint trickle of air.

  Marie-Chantal called out and within seconds Nurse Brighton arrived. One glance at the scene in front of her and she ran swiftly toward them, wings of her hat flapping. Agnes moved out of the way, telling herself that it was irrational to be surprised. Arsov was old and ill.

  “We can get an air ambulance,” she said. “They’ll send one for an emergency. I think our radio is working reliably—”

  The nurse stopped her with a wave of the hand, her attention focused on her patient. “No ambulance. He doesn’t want to spend his last days in a hospital or hooked up to machines.”

  She yanked a tapestry bellpull multiple times and the butler and several male servants arrived at a run. Her orders were calm and professional and two of the men gently held Arsov upright in his wheelchair and propelled him toward his bedroom, leaving the other servants to wander off looking bewildered and upset. The nurse gave Agnes and Marie-Chantal a doubtful look, then swept from the room.

  “This is my fault,” Marie-Chantal cried, when she and Agnes were alone. “I should have thought about how it would sound just two days after—” She covered her face with her hands. “I can’t even remember what I said, but it was bad, wasn’t it? Madame Puguet doesn’t think Mimi was stolen away. She’s hiding, like always. I made it sound dramatic and now he’s had a stroke and will die and it’s all my fault.”

  Agnes tried to console her. Marie-Chantal pushed away. “I have to know. Antoinette will never forgive me.” She headed from the room.

  Agnes thought Marie-Chantal was too upset to charge into a sickroom. “Let me ask. I can make sure Nurse Brighton doesn’t want to call an air ambulance.”

  Marie-Chantal glanced around the room. “Take the oxygen. They’ll need that. Please take it and find out. I have to know if I killed him.”

  Agnes picked up the small container and, after straightening her skirt, walked the long enfilade along the façade, through open door after open door, for once immune to the grandeur of the spaces. At the opposite end of the mansion, nearest Château Vallotton, the wheelchair was parked in a doorway. Arsov’s bedroom. The sight of the discarded blanket on the empty leather seat was heart-wrenching and she prepared herself for the worst. The door to the room was open, but the interior was mostly hidden by a large trifold tapestry screen. She took a step in and the nurse turned from her task, frowning. Reluctantly she waved Agnes forward.

  “This is why I guard him so closely. He’s more frail than he lets on.”

  Agnes handed the nurse the oxygen container then noticed another, larger one, in the corner. “Madame Vallotton is worried and wanted me to see—”

  “Save your breath. It doesn’t do any good to worry once something has happened.” Nurse Brighton led Agnes around the screen into the room, giving a satisfied smile when she gawked. “The bed is supposed to have belonged to Napoleon, or maybe a Prussian king. I didn’t pay much attention to what he told me about it.”

  The bed was narrow and not long, but it was impressive with a tall headboard enclosing three sides. High overhead a carved coronet was surmounted by white plumes and draped with purple velvet that extended to brackets on the headboard, resulting in a tentlike effect. Arsov lay covered by a blanket amidst the splendor. Overwhelmed by emotion, Agnes drew near. Thin and frail, his glasses had been removed and with them some of his dignity. He looked so old he resembled a helpless infant.

  The size and scale of the room further diminished him. The space was filled with framed photographs and small art objects, and in the center three deep-cushioned chairs surrounded a small table. The room was clearly filled with carefully selected mementos and Agnes thought it should be called a memory chamber. She stood quietly while the nurse continued her examination: taking Arsov’s pulse and making notations about other vital signs.

  “Can you tell me your name?” the nurse asked, bending over the bed.

  Agnes heard the mumbled response, but the words were too slurred and low to understand. The nurse placed her hands in her patient’s and asked him to squeeze. Agnes watched closely for an indication of Arsov’s health. He gripped the nurse’s right hand, while his left one remained limp. Nurse Brighton made a few more notations, then added another blanket to the one already tucked in around him. When finished, she poured herself a glass of water from a carafe and drank it down. Agnes realized that the nurse was more upset than she let on.

  “I was a nurse at a private clinic in London,” Nurse Brighton said, studying Arsov. “Monsieur was in for treatment and we met and he liked me. I’d never thought to leave my job there, but he pays well and this was my chance to retire early with some earnings put aside.” She took another long swallow of water.

  “What would they do for him at the hospital?”

  “There’s no need for a hospital. He didn’t have a stroke; he had a transient ischemic attack. He’s having trouble seeing and speaking, similar to a stroke. And he’s confused. But it will pass. We’ll keep him warm and comfortable and he should recover.”

  She walked to the far side of the room and opened the heavy drapes all the way, letting daylight flood the space. “Anyway, it was part of my contract that I agree to attend him here regardless of his medical condition.”

  The bedroom occupied a corner of the mansion and in one direction the view to the lake was magnificent. In the other, the view gave onto the grove separating the property from the château.

  “In the event of a decline in his health—like today—he insisted that he be treated here,” Nurse Brighton said. “In this room, and that I keep the drapes open.” She shrugged her shoulders as if the details weren’t of interest, although she would follow the instructions faithfully.

  They looked at the man in the bed. His skin was gray and his breathing shallow.

  “He is weaker than he looks,” she said. “All this talk of the past, then the idea that the girl is missing, it was too much for him. He’s old and shouldn’t be bothered.”

  Twenty-two

  Agnes stood in the cold marble entrance hall of the mansion and reread the note in her hand. The handwriting was shaky and fatigue made the words blur even more. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and resisted the temptation to interrupt Arsov’s butler, who was clearly upset. She wondered how much was worry that the old man’s illness would mean lost jobs here, and how much was genuine concern.

  “I’m sorry,” she interrupted, “but I actually came to ask Monsieur Arsov about the message he sent me this morning.”

  “The note, yes.” The butler regained his composure. Then he paled. “It was evidence? Now he can’t speak and it will hurt your investigation and that poor woman’s killer will go free.”

  “I’m not sure his message had anything to do with the investigation. Unless you know something about it?” He looked aghast at the suggesti
on.

  She expressed her sympathy one more time and drew a distressed Marie-Chantal Vallotton out the front door. A few steps down the drive they stood in silence, Agnes reflecting on the old man’s health.

  “He can’t be that ill,” she said. “No matter what Nurse Brighton says, they would have called for a helicopter if he was in danger of dying. The lawn is broad enough for an air ambulance to land. She must know what she’s doing.”

  Marie-Chantal pressed a hand to her face. “I think I need to be alone.” She darted down the drive as quickly as she could in her heels.

  Agnes watched her leave, also pleased to be alone for a moment. She reread the note Arsov had sent and tried to understand the meaning: I have been too strict. Please come see me.

  She was flummoxed. Strict with who, with what? And what did this have to do with her? When the maid set the note by her plate at breakfast she had assumed it was related to the murder investigation; there was no other reason for Arsov to want to see her. Now she wasn’t certain. What if he wasn’t thinking clearly in the hours leading up to his collapse? “Too strict” sounded more like something to do with the little girl, Mimi. Perhaps the note wasn’t even intended for her.

  Slipping the note into her coat pocket, she turned toward the edge of the lake, foregoing the treacherous drive. Here the light snow provided traction and she walked more confidently, thinking about the problems facing them. Unfortunate as Arsov’s condition was, he was not her worry. Felicity Cowell was.

  Although there was no real evidence, Harry Thomason remained at the forefront of her list of suspects, with Nick Graves less and less likely as a murderer. Insensitive lout, perhaps, but murderer, no. Thomason’s relationship to the victim combined with the theft made him a possible candidate, but there wasn’t more to go on than suspicion. Had he and Felicity schemed to rob the Vallottons and then fought and he killed her? Or had he planned the murder all along to rid himself of an accomplice? Perhaps he had discovered she was a thief and struck in anger and surprise. There were various scenarios, and the only one she could rule out was accidental death. The knife didn’t slip into Felicity Cowell. It was driven very purposefully into her back. Brutally, even. She wished for the hundredth time that they had the knife. Was it an object of value that triggered an argument? Or was it brought intentionally to kill her?