She walked all the way to the lake’s edge before turning to study the château. The impact of the storm was enormous. The entire façade near the lake was sheeted with ice: glass, stone, and wood all sealed by nature. She smiled. To her boys these days would be a wonderful memory of afternoons outside in the winter weather. Her oldest would expect stories from her time away, convinced that being a police inspector was thrilling. None of them, sitting in their grandparents’ house warmed by blazing fireplaces, would know about the stranded cars and cold homes. For this, she was grateful.
She shoved her hands in her pockets and turned to look out over the frozen gray lake. Broken and ice-encased trees edged the shore; otherwise it was impossible to tell precisely where the water ended. Dangerous. She studied the shoreline intently, as if it held the solution to all of her questions, trying to drown out memories with concentration. Home still meant George. Memories were Pandora’s box.
She couldn’t stop herself. George was too present in everything she did and thought and said. She needed to re-contextualize her memories. He wasn’t solid, plodding George, but someone different—no longer devoted son, husband, and father. Instead, a different man, one she didn’t know.
Unfortunately, forever, remembering George meant thinking of Carnet. He was a different kind of memory—flat—for the range of their shared experiences was thinner, despite seeing each other for hours every day at work. At the same time, the memory was crisp, and she steeled herself and then let the images slip across her mind’s eye. She needed to look at him differently, an image without preconception. Stripping away her feelings, she conceded that although not handsome, he was charismatic. She swallowed bile. Desirable even.
Wind whipped across her face and stinging tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She closed them. Melancholy was an emotion she had grown familiar with; it was a comfort. The cold burned her cheeks and she pictured George, only this time he wasn’t alone, he was standing next to Carnet at the shooting match, laughing and gesticulating widely as he explained something, a broad smile on his animated face. She tried to wallow in her darkening emotions, but a nudge of a smile tilted the corner of her mouth. How had she not seen it? She was a police inspector, for god’s sake. Were her eyes clouded because it was another man? Or because it was too close to her? Pressing a gloved hand to her heart, she took a deep breath. Every day had been a struggle, every day she had examined herself and her failings and never had she blamed that terrible day on George. She took another deep breath, feeling that she was on a precipice. She looked out over the water. There was no blame; life would move on. At the edge of her mind there was another voice: Sybille’s. Morning had redoubled her conviction that his parents could not know. Let someone else lead the way for equality and acceptance; her boys had been through enough to not suffer renewed pity from the villagers. She frowned, realizing it was unfair to George to hide his true self from his sons. She was wondering about telling them when they were older and able to understand and be accepting of the powerful struggle he had faced, when a shouted “good morning” made her turn.
Julien Vallotton appeared from behind a tangle of limbs, dressed for outdoor work and carrying a bundle of orange strips. Taking a deep breath to clear her mind, Agnes met him halfway across the lawn, but not before wondering again exactly where the shore began. Harry Thomason’s story about walking around the point of the cliff was more believable now that she had seen the edge for herself. She sighed. She needed someone to be guilty. A day and a half had passed and they were no closer to a solution than when she arrived. For a moment she was glad Bardy was trapped at home without a telephone. He couldn’t know of her failure.
“Marking trees,” Vallotton said, when he was near enough to be heard. “More will have to come down than fell, too many limbs have been stripped away. Carnet came by earlier offering to help.” He looked at Agnes closely. “He seemed distressed. Have you discovered something?”
“He’s probably tired. Monsieur Arsov has had a stroke—or something like a stroke.” Transient ischemic attack didn’t roll off the tongue easily. “Nurse Brighton insists he will recover, and that he doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”
Vallotton looked toward the mansion, then studied his own residence. “Stubborn. Like my father. In his last months he knew it was the end and had his bed moved to the tower there.”
Agnes followed his eye to the original tower nearest the lake. The top floor was marked by a series of tall narrow slits with slightly shorter openings running horizontally through them, creating stunted crosses. Openings for bows and arrows now in-filled with glass.
“He wanted to die in command of the surroundings, just as he’d lived.” Vallotton turned to Agnes. “He’d lived through a century of change and probably thought willpower would get him through another one. He and Arsov are like-minded.”
Ice crunched and they both turned. Petit arrived at a near run, slipping with every other step but managing to keep his balance. “Carnet sent me to find you, Inspector. I got the radio working regular and he talked to my chief. I wrote it out for you.” He thrust a piece of paper into Agnes’s hand. “And the doctor gave me this for you.” He extracted an envelope from his pocket.
Agnes pulled the doctor’s note from the envelope first. Skimming it, she wasn’t surprised. She handed it to Vallotton.
“The family has to know,” he said after reading. “Sad, really, better if they didn’t.”
Petit looked from one to the other. Agnes took the note and handed it to him. She watched the expression on his face when he read the words. Joy, surprise, then comprehension.
“This affects Thomason and his story,” she said to Vallotton. “He certainly didn’t mention it and I think he would have.” She slipped her hand inside her coat and ran her thumb along the inside of her waistband, biting her lip. “Maybe she told him and he was angry and killed her.”
“Because she was pregnant?” Vallotton asked.
Petit sucked in a shock of air.
Agnes gave Vallotton an exasperated look, turning to Petit. “Take Doctor Blanchard’s note to Carnet if he hasn’t seen it. He needs to know.”
Petit walked off silently, reading the note again.
Vallotton waited until the other man was out of earshot. “You think Thomason might not be the father?”
They studied each other then turned to view the landscape.
“We shouldn’t think the worst, not yet,” Agnes said, scanning Carnet’s note. “This will probably be terrible news for him.”
“Either way,” Vallotton added, which earned him another sharp look.
Winston ambled up, crossing the ice with an expression of fixed dignity, as if he was entirely comfortable with his paws slithering out from under him every fifth step. Agnes smiled. He had a long bone in his mouth, which reminded her that he usually managed to convey an attitude more human than canine. He drew near and Vallotton started to take and throw it when she gave a startled shout. She grabbed Winston’s collar and wrenched the bone from between his teeth.
Vallotton arched an eyebrow. “Is that what I think—”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “This is a human femur.”
Twenty-three
It wasn’t difficult to retrace Winston’s path across the crust of new snow. It was perfect for retaining paw prints.
“Maybe he picked the bone up in the village,” Agnes said.
“A human bone? What, from the butcher?” Julien Vallotton asked, dubiously.
“The local cemetery.”
Passing a member of the household staff who was vigorously attacking a fallen tree with an ax, Agnes and Vallotton exchanged a look. “Maybe it’s the result of an early morning accident,” she said.
“I’ve seen that in a movie. Person killed, then boiled.”
“I think I’ve seen that one, too.” Agnes turned the bone over in her hands. “It’s cracked and dirty. Clearly old and I think it’s safe to say it’s been exposed to the elements or
in the earth for some time. Is there a cemetery in the village?”
“Yes, it’s small but adequate since we don’t have a big demand for plots here.”
Meaning they didn’t practice the recycling of gravesites common elsewhere in the region. Also meaning there was absolutely no reason a human bone would have been unearthed.
Closer to the château, the ground was more heavily trafficked. Agnes studied the mess of footprints and broken ice. Off to the side, Winston watched as they looked for evidence of his path. Then, with a bored sigh and wagging tail, he turned and trotted in the direction of the grove. Without comment, the humans followed and Agnes felt a shiver of apprehension as she neared the place where they had found Felicity Cowell two days ago.
“It’s not hers,” Vallotton mumbled.
Agnes gave him a scathing look as they rounded the final branches. She hadn’t walked this deep into the grove since the previous morning and the change was shocking. More trees had fallen, including one enormous old chestnut. The trunk had been a few meters from the bench where they found the body; its branches forming part of the canopy that had protected the corpse from the worst of the storm. Now, the strength of the branches that had held against the weight of the ice was the reason for the tree’s demise. Instead of the branches shearing off, leaving a bare trunk, the tree had been weighted with ice until the roots sheared and the entire structure fell. When that happened, an enormous clod of earth was excavated along with the roots. The soaring structure loomed three meters high, dangling roots and soil. The black hole of frozen ground where the earth had been ripped up stretched almost to the bench and it was there, very near the stone seat, that a skeleton lay at the bottom of the dirt pit. Only the bones of one foot and leg were clearly visible. The remainder was covered by a layer of earth and something that appeared man-made.
“A shroud,” Vallotton said, before jumping into the hole. It was obvious this was a human skeleton. He held out his hand to her and Agnes clambered down, slightly unsettled to be nearly waist deep in the earth.
“There was a family cemetery on the property,” Vallotton said, “from the earliest days, but I was always told it was at the other end, near the cliff, and all of the bodies were moved about three hundred years ago to the new churchyard in the village.”
“I don’t think these bones are that old,” Agnes said. “That looks like remains of fabric.” She pointed to strands extending from the frozen ground.
“The bones aren’t new.” Vallotton brushed dirt away with a gloved hand.
“No, they’re not recently buried; however, I also don’t think this was part of a cemetery. There would be some evidence of even a simple wood coffin. Nails or something.” She hesitated to touch anything, although she wasn’t sure if it was out of respect for the dead or in anticipation of the investigation that would have to occur. “We can hardly get assistance to the living right now, so I don’t think anyone’s going to come see about this for some time. We should cover the bones again.”
“I’ll get a tarp and hold it down with stones. Keep the animals away,” Vallotton said.
Agnes glanced at Winston, who was studying her with equal interest. Suddenly she wanted to know more immediately. “Let’s ask Doctor Blanchard to look first, maybe he can tell us something.”
Taking the dog with them as a preventative measure, Agnes and Julien Vallotton entered the château.
“When was this door put in?” Agnes asked, remembering Marie-Chantal’s comment that it was recent.
“I don’t know. A hundred years ago? Hundred twenty-five?”
Agnes decided the family had a different idea of time than she did. They climbed the stairs to the main level where Winston shook himself and trotted off in search of other adventures. Agnes remembered a more important architectural question.
“I found Ralph Mulholland locked in the ice house this morning. He used an underground tunnel. A tunnel no one told us about.”
Vallotton looked surprised.
“It led from the pantry?” she added. “Or someplace in the kitchen.”
Julien Vallotton frowned, rubbing his forehead. Finally he nodded slowly. “I’d forgotten about it. Hasn’t been used in my lifetime if it’s really there.” He led the way toward the kitchen, sending the startled cook into a flurry of confusion.
“It’s here, monsieur. I’ve never seen the door open, but I know where it is,” the cook said, wiping her hands on her apron and leading them to the secondary corridor. They went deeper into the service part of the château than Agnes had gone the day before. The corridor turned before dead-ending.
“When was the last time you were in the kitchen?” Agnes whispered to Vallotton.
“My aunt frowns on it.”
“Never?” Agnes was aghast.
He grinned at her. “When I was a boy, I used to sneak down for treats.”
“Greedy little beggars, you and Monsieur Daniel were,” the cook called over her shoulder, making Agnes laugh. “Here’s the door.” She pointed into a small room. “The old cook told me it was all ramps out to the ice house, no stairs. Built that way to carry the ice sculptures. Must have been lovely. Well, I’m back at my work now.”
The cook left and Agnes flicked on her flashlight. The storeroom had glass panes at the top of the interior wall, borrowing some light from the hall lamps. Not overly large, it was empty with a sturdy door set in the back wall. A canvas curtain was pushed into the corner. If Mulholland had pulled the curtain back then that was the reason neither Carnet nor Petit had noticed the door themselves. The door was slightly open, the heavy latch not fastened.
“This doesn’t make sense,” said Agnes. “Mulholland said he couldn’t get back in.”
“Hand me your light,” Vallotton said, opening the door all the way.
“I’m going with you.”
She followed Vallotton into the darkness. The corridor was lined with rough lumber. It was fairly wide and the stone floor sloped down gradually. There were slight grooves in the surface.
“Marks from a rolling table, I’d say. Must have used a hand cart to bring ice up.” Vallotton ran his beam along the floor before moving it ahead of them. They’d gone ten or fifteen meters when they reached another door. Vallotton tried to open it, shoving with his shoulder. It didn’t move.
“Look,” Agnes said. There was a long iron bolt at both the top and bottom of the door. “The one on the bottom must have slipped down and closed.”
Vallotton fiddled with it. “Moves easily enough. Bad luck on Mulholland’s part. Door must have swung shut and the bolt was perfectly aligned. It dropped.” He thumped the door. “It’s too thick to hear through, plus we’re well underground now. He was right, no one would have heard him here. Should we go on?”
“No, Petit and Carnet will walk the length in case—” she didn’t complete the sentence.
“I understand. Evidence about Mademoiselle Cowell’s death. I’ve told you I didn’t do it and don’t know who did. I certainly am not concealing knowledge of the tunnel to hide evidence.”
Agnes hoped not. That would end her career as fast as it put him in custody. She led the way back to the kitchen.
“Why was Mulholland down here at all?” she wondered.
He arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Bored? Maybe he likes architecture and was curious?”
“You like architecture and barely remembered it, and this is your house. Besides, your cook never saw him. If he is interested in architecture I’d think he’d ask her to reveal the secrets of the kitchen, or ask you. You could give a tour. There’s something not right about him.”
“He’s a bit of an odd one, but I know a lot of people who are far more off. He probably is bored. Maybe he was hungry in the night. Mysterious door looks interesting and he gives it a try.”
“I think the mysterious door was concealed when he found it.” Agnes thanked the cook as they retraced their steps through her domain. “Mulholland roaming around at night is, I suppose, no stran
ger than you working outside just now. I thought you had people to do that sort of thing for you.”
“It is my property,” Vallotton said. “Surely I don’t look that feeble?”
“Everyone else seems to be safely inside.”
“I think my brother is chomping at the bit. He’d be ice fishing or skating or something dangerous if he could walk properly. Mulholland is likely bored with the storm keeping him in. Even Mimi has outdone herself with this latest round of hide-and-seek. At least MC is entertained looking for her. Only my aunt’s routine isn’t changed by man or ice.”
They entered a sitting room near the main hall and a maid took Agnes’s coat and handed her a heavy sweater to ward off the indoor chill; it was easy to become accustomed to such thoughtfulness. Vallotton stepped into another room and reemerged minutes later having exchanged outdoor boots and sweater for his usual elegant attire. They held their hands out to the fireplace to warm them. Vallotton asked the maid if Harry Thomason was still in the breakfast room, while Agnes asked her to find Petit and the doctor.
When she heard Petit approach, Agnes motioned Vallotton to the breakfast room. They found Thomason sitting alone at the cleared table, looking worse than he had the day before after his long, cold walk. Agnes was tempted to believe that this was how grief looked, then she remembered why she was here and took a seat a few chairs down from him. He had to be treated as a possible suspect. Vallotton joined them, pouring himself a cup of coffee from a silver pot before choosing a chair opposite Thomason. Petit selected a chair against the wall where he could take notes unobtrusively.
Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery Page 20